


House's Heart

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Category: House M.D.
Genre: (And yes I firmly believe House is autistic), (Might turn into a shippy thing if they feel like it), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, Autistic Greg House, Bromance, Cancer, Cancer recovery, Character Death Fix, Chemotherapy, Detoxing, Drug Abuse, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Epic Bromance, Everybody lies, Five Stages of Grief, Friends to Lovers slow burn, Gen, Greg House & James Wilson Friendship, Greg House Being an Asshole, Greg House Being an Idiot, Greg House Loves James Wilson, Greg House and James Wilson Being in Love, Greg House is Bad With Emotions, Hallucinating Greg House, Hallucination Amber Volakis, Hallucinations, Hurt James Wilson (House M.D.), Identity Fraud, James Wilson (House M.D.) Lives, James Wilson Loves Greg House, M/M, Medical Miracles, Miracles, OR IS IT, Oblivious James Wilson, One-Sided Attraction, Poor James Wilson (House M.D.), Post-Canon, Post-Canon Fix-It, Protective Greg House, Sick James Wilson (House M.D.), Slow Burn, Soft Greg House, Surgery, Vicodin, Vomiting, but also not really, chemo - Freeform, puking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:35:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 34,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26693068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: “Even if we drove you to the nearest hospital, you’d have to be on and off chemo two weeks at a time to see any results. And in case you haven’t been counting on the puppy dog calendar I bought you five months ago, you have three weeks.”
Relationships: Greg House & Eric Foreman, Greg House & James Wilson, Greg House & Original Character(s), Greg House/James Wilson, James Wilson & Eric Foreman, James Wilson & Original Character(s)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 67





	1. Every Night In My Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> So I just recently got into House M.D. and finished it like, within a month. I have to say, I was _not_ disappointed, even though I don't usually take to medical shows. House and Wilson's relationship is one of my favorites (whether it's romantic or platonic and at this point I just wanna explore it all), and I was so sad about Wilson getting cancer that I McFucking decided to fix it. So prepare yourselves. This is gonna be a ride.

"I think I want to try chemo again."

House paused mid-chew, the glorious steak he'd previously been enjoying rapidly turning stale in his mouth. He could feel Wilson's gaze on him, felt the table shudder as his best friend's knee bounced against the bottom of it, an anxious, rapid movement he hadn't been able to shake since they'd sat down to eat. House hadn't commented on it, just offered a couple odd glances now and then, but ultimately decided against bringing it up. They'd hit a bit of a… rough patch the past few days, arguing about the littlest things. Where to settle down, when to settle down. Whether or not they should keep traveling and sightseeing, or bunker down in some dingy motel room and wait for the Reaper to come knocking at the door in the few weeks they had left. So House wasn't about to provoke another argument. Not that sneering at Wilson's stupidity didn't bring him _immense_ joy, but recently it left a more bitter taste on his tongue than the steak was. Narrowed blue eyes flicked up to his best friend's face, forcing himself to swallow the food.

"Why?" He found himself asking, lifting his chin a little. He and Wilson were at eye-level sitting down, since House tended to slouch and Wilson was practically flattening himself against the back of the booth he was sitting in, straight and tense and still bouncing his leg. Yet, somehow, he managed to look down on the other man, _literally_ turning his nose up and peering down at him with what he hoped was something at least resembling apathy, or indifference. In truth, and he was sure even Wilson knew that, House wasn't entirely indifferent to the idea. He was, however, a little bit pissed off. A few weeks on the clock, ticking away - and _now_ Wilson decides.

Wilson glared at him through half-lidded eyes, but there was more exhaustion than malice flickering through his caramel eyes. He looked like shit; then again, these days, he always did. He was always sweating, always looked like his eyes had sunk too far into their sockets, always looked like he was crying, with a red nose that almost rivaled Rudolf's and puffiness around his eyes that didn't go away no matter how dry his eyes seemed to be. He was always shaking, always moving. When he wasn't bouncing his leg, he was stimming with the buttons on his shirt, or rolling a coin across his knuckles, or fidgeting with his tie, or doing something - anything - that kept him from sitting still. Even at night, House could hear him rolling back and forth on whatever bed he laid claim to in the hotel rooms they booked, unable to sleep, but too tired to get up and do anything else. His gaze held no anger, only a quiet, terrified, _tired_ desperation.

"I…" Wilson's shoulders twitched, a suddenly panicked expression swallowing the exhaustion that had previously been written across his face. "What do you mean, _why?_ I thought you want-"

"I thought _you_ didn't want to spend whatever time you had left miserable," House remarked, ripping his napkin from underneath the glass filled with Sprite he had ordered. The cup wobbled dangerously, and Wilson's trembling body spasmed as he sat forward, as if he was ready to dive across the table to save it. Pointedly, House pressed a finger against the rim of the glass to steady it, and spared Wilson a somewhat mocking look as he lifted the napkin to dab at his face.

Wilson sank back again sharply, a pained grimace settling across his face. "Well, I don't, but…"

"Wilson, you're scared. You're irrational." House rubbed the napkin over his mouth briefly, if only to hide the frown tugging at his lips, to muffle the way his words clipped and stilted without his permission. He didn't believe a word of what he was saying - hell, he didn't _want_ to - but as his time with his best friend grew shorter, he realized, more and more, that he was just _tired_. Tired of chasing after what he wanted all the time. What was the point? He couldn't get what he wanted without some grand form of manipulation, some lies, some deceit. And otherwise, he didn't really care anyway. Wilson would be dead within the next few weeks, and the only thing House had left that was tying him to his own pathetic life would have vanished into thin air. And yes, he knew this was about Wilson. Wilson _dying_ was about Wilson. But when he was gone? Well, that would be about House. And House could not _handle_ any more needless hope, and he couldn't handle sitting by Wilson's side and watching him die all sweaty and sad and miserable.

There was no dignity in death. But at least Wilson wouldn't have to die _trying_ not to die. Everything his patients used to tell him suddenly made sense - well, it had always made sense, he usually just pretended they were idiots because he wanted to solve the puzzle - but regardless, it didn't matter. He wasn't going to let his best friend delude himself into thinking that he had a chance, after all this time. After months of traveling and trying to find some fun in what was left of their time together. After refusing treatment because he didn't want to die in pain.

And he wasn't going to delude himself into believing that there was a chance, because there wasn't. It was too late to start chemo again, and Wilson, being an _oncologist_ , should _know_ this.

"Chemotherapy isn't going to do anything for you now," he told Wilson firmly, tossing the napkin onto his plate and letting it half-cover his only half-eaten steak. He wasn't in the mood to eat and he wasn't going to pretend that he was. "Even if we drove you to the nearest hospital, you'd have to be on and off chemo two weeks at a time to see any results. And in case you haven't been counting on the puppy dog calendar I bought you five months ago, you have three weeks."

"Three weeks," Wilson echoed. He ran his tongue over his lips and swallowed, hard, as if the simple action strained him. "So maybe if- if I start it now, maybe I can buy some more time." House lowered his head slightly after a moment, until he had to stare up at Wilson instead.

"You want to spend two of your last _three weeks_ ," House emphasized, "on _chemo?"_

Wilson shook his head. This time, the glare he fixed on House was only non-threatening because of the tears brewing in his eyes, the already red, puffy skin seeming to darken even further. House faltered, though he didn't show it. There was no point in showing it. He couldn't let Wilson do this to himself, to _him_ , and he knew his friend would pounce at any sign of weakness, any sign of reluctance or hesitation. He might not be a master manipulator like House was, but he definitely still knew how to tug some strings, and push _some_ buttons. "I don't want to die, House," Wilson replied in a harsh whisper, and House frowned. "I'm not ready."

"Nobody's _ready_ to die," House muttered. But he sank back after a moment, regarding his best friend with genuine bewilderment. "Why now?" He grunted. "If you'd said something sooner-"

The table shuddered again, and House let his head fall back briefly, pressing his palms down against the edges of the table to hold it steady, despite Wilson's harsh bouncing growing more and more erratic, more and more desperate. He knew what this was. The fear of a dying man, rapidly approaching his inevitable demise. He knew there was no way to really be _ready_ for that. At least in all his near-death experiences, House hadn't had to live long-term with the realization that he was going to die. He didn't have to have it looming over his head for months on end. Death was inevitable for everyone - but to actually know when you were supposed to die, to actually have an expiration date, to know what to expect and when and _how_ to expect it… it was something even Gregory House couldn't possibly imagine, couldn't possibly relate to, even now. All he knew was that Wilson was just another scared, dying man who wanted to change his fate. Another scared, dying man who was about to find out that fate couldn't be changed, or avoided.

He stared upwards, lost in thought, until the table suddenly stopped shaking. Only then did he look over, only heaving out a sigh when he saw that Wilson was pushing himself up and out of the booth, shuffling out from behind the table. Trembling hands fumbled with his wallet, tugging out a ten dollar bill and letting it flutter, like a leaf from a tree, onto the table. He didn't look at House, didn't even stop to scan his surroundings, just turned and left before the money had even landed. The door swung open, the bell hooked to it singing a familiar tune House had long gotten used to with all their trips in and out of diners, and swung shut behind his friend without Wilson breaking stride for even a second. House gazed after him, lowering his hands silently.

Finally, snatching up the ten dollar bill - and replacing it with a five - he grappled for his cane, hanging from a hook a painting had previously been attached to. He didn't stop to remove it from where it sat beside him in the booth, one of the waitresses could take care of that. He heaved himself up, sucking in air through his teeth, and spun his cane into place beside him. He followed Wilson's lead in not bothering to glance around before he left, pushing the door open with his cane and tightening his grip as he forced himself to move a little faster, following his best friend over to where they'd parked their motorcycles. "The thing about running from a cripple," he called, "is that you actually have to make an effort to get away. We _can_ catch up." Wilson didn't reply, but he scowled as he snatched his helmet off of the handlebars.

"You're not mad at me," House muttered as he reached his best friend. Wilson tore the strap apart, still silent, and reached up to adjust the helmet onto his head. "Come on, I didn't even do anything this time! I just pointed out _facts_. The facts are that you're going to spend two weeks miserable in a hospital bed in some cancer unit, like you were trying to avoid in the first place. You think I don't want you to get treatment? Like I wasn't pushing for it the whole time you-"

"That's not the point!" Wilson snapped, finally whirling around to glare at him again. House narrowed his eyes, twisting his cane against the ground. "I don't care what you want, House! _I_ want this! _I'm_ the one that's dying, _I'm_ the one that has to- to _make_ these decisions, and-"

"And I'm the one that has to deal with it when you die," House cut him off sharply. "And I'm sorry I'd rather not spend your last few weeks watching you puke your guts out and _not_ get better."

Wilson _sneered_ , curling his lips back as he snarled, "I'm not getting _better_ anyway."

"So your solution is to make yourself worse," House huffed when he recovered, but his glare wavered when Wilson rolled his eyes and turned away from him again. He didn't know what to make of the anger, the resentment, but at the same time, he wasn't too surprised by it either. Wilson was grasping at straws here, trying to make sense of his situation and his decisions and _trying_ to figure out the next course of action. House wasn't making it any easier, and he knew that just as well, but his job wasn't to make it easier. His job was to make sure Wilson didn't die alone and miserable. At least, as miserable as he would be hooked up to machines with medicine nearly as toxic as the disease that was killing him pulsing through his veins. The man grimaced, ducking his head and glancing down, rubbing his thumb over the handle of his cane.

"I'm going back to the hotel," Wilson mumbled, briefly tearing the man away from his thoughts. He wrinkled his nose at himself, disgusted and furious, but kept his expression remotely blank as he flicked his gaze back up to his best friend. Wilson swung one leg over his motorcycle, shaking hands steadying themselves against the handlebars. For a moment, House almost worried - he worried whether Wilson was in any condition to drive himself to the hotel at all. Three weeks left and the man could barely stand on his own for long periods of time now, having to sit down more and more wherever they went. Sometimes he had to pull over when they were riding, and House would sit and watch him double over in the grass. Sometimes he'd walk over and sit with him while Wilson threw up, sometimes he'd grab his shoulder to hold him steady, sometimes he'd pretend, when his best friend was finished, that he was going to shove him face-first into his own vomit. Maybe it was just a way to excuse himself for being so close, for showing any sign of compassion, any real human emotion. He wasn't too good at all that.

The point was, Wilson _wasn't_ getting better. He was getting worse. Physically, and emotionally, it seemed. Mentally. He was declining rapidly, in every way possible, and House wasn't sure what to do. He didn't want to spend his last few weeks fighting, and he most definitely didn't want Wilson to die _angry_ at him. But he knew speaking up and asking if Wilson was sure he could make the drive all the way to the hotel wasn't a good idea, not with his best friend already in such a pissy mood as it was. And so he stood, unable to speak, as the motorcycle rumbled to life, holding his tongue for his own sake as he watched Wilson speed out of the parking lot. After a moment, waiting until his best friend disappeared from sight, House grabbed his own helmet. Wilson could get pissy all he wanted. He couldn't stop House from going back to the hotel, too.

When he reached the hotel, at a much slower pace - and after a quick break at the nearest gas station to get himself a soda and stock up on candy bars - Wilson was stretched out on his stomach with a pillow stuffed under his chest, glassy eyes glued to the TV. He didn't look up when House entered, but he saw his best friend's lips purse slightly, saw his eyes narrow. Despite himself, he heaved out a sigh, even while he tossed two of the candy bars onto the bed beside Wilson as he limped over to his own. Wilson glanced down at them, and frowned.

"Peace offering?" He muttered, half-heartedly. "Because Hershey's fixes everything."

"Doesn't it?" House sank down onto his bed, propping his cane up against the nightstand centered between them. His hand found his leg instinctively, the other dropping the bag-full of candy so that he could reach into his pocket for his only source of refuge, of relief, the half-empty pill bottle feeling heavy in his hand, dutifully waiting for him to take his next dose. Wilson didn't respond while House thumbed the lid off and dumped two of the pills into his hand, but he heard one of the wrappers of the candy bars being torn open, so he assumed his best friend had taken the peace offering. He found himself relaxing almost immediately; he didn't like it when Wilson was upset with him for any reason, and it always felt like a weight had been lifted off of his chest whenever his best friend confirmed, even with something as subtle as opening a candy bar, that they were still _okay_. Especially with the short time they had left; it meant everything to House, and it meant even more to have the confirmation that the three weeks wouldn't be spent with _total_ resentment. "I wasn't dismissing you back at the diner," he muttered.

Wilson shrugged, pushing himself back on the bed and crossing his legs as he stared at the TV. He bit off a chunk of the chocolate bar, swirling it around in his mouth, and chewed for a little while before he swallowed and responded. "It doesn't matter, anyway. You were right," his best friend told him quietly. The despondent tone lacing his words brought a grimace to House's lips, but he said nothing as he screwed the cap back onto the bottle and tucked it away, tilting his head back and letting the two pills fall into his mouth. "It's too late. It's not gonna help anymore. Not that it was helping to begin with." Wilson choked out a laugh, and House almost winced. Indifferent as he tried to act, Wilson's pain was _his_ pain. It hurt to hear him so sad, so _defeated_.

He swallowed the pills and closed his hands around his leg, beginning the delicate but quick process of lifting it up onto the bed with the rest of his body. "There's nothing we can do, Wilson. There's nothing _you_ can do. All the chemo in the world, it wouldn't…" He trailed off, licking his lips, and shook his head as he forced himself to try again, " _you_ saw the tumor. If anything…"

"There has to be more than this," Wilson murmured. "More than wandering from place to place, bar to bar, hotel to hotel. I don't want to die i- in- in some dirty, moldy motel room."

"We could always rent a honeymoon suite," House offered. "Might be weird, though."

His words had the desired effect, a half-strangled laugh from Wilson as his best friend swallowed another mouthful of chocolate. "Yeah." He heaved out a surprisingly steady sigh. House glanced over at him, reclining back on the cheap, thin pillows and resting his head back against the rickety, loose headboard behind him. "I guess it's stupid, isn't it? I'm dying anyway. Does it matter where?" Wilson marveled, and House puffed his cheeks out, glancing away. Normally, he wouldn't care about the answer. If Wilson had been anybody else… some dying patient, or even someone he knew personally, he would have given the harsh response that had readied itself on the tip of his tongue. He'd tell them that no, it didn't matter. Yes, it was stupid worrying about something as trivial as _where_ you were going to die. He could take Wilson to _Paris_ to die, and it wouldn't make a difference. In the end, he'd just be dead. It wouldn't matter. Death didn't matter, not as much as living. Why should location be such a big concern?

But this wasn't anybody else. This was Wilson. And he didn't want to sugarcoat, he never had and he never _would_ , but for a moment - just a moment - maybe he could pretend that he was an actual human being with actual compassion and empathy for somebody else. Maybe he could pretend, for a second, that he could act sympathetic to his best friend, who was _about to die._ The former doctor sighed, and scowled, and ducked his head, reaching out to tug the bag toward him and pull out one of his own candy bars. "It matters to you," he replied begrudgingly. "I guess when you're dying, you're allowed to worry about the 'stupid' things."

Wilson let out another strangled laugh, wheezing out a cough only a second later. House tightened his grip on the candy bar enough to snap it in two, but he didn't bother exchanging it for another one, simply continued ripping his way through the wrapper with surprisingly unsteady fingers. "When you're dying, you have to worry about things you didn't before," Wilson commented. "Not just burial or cremation or who your money goes to. Things like where you want to die, how you want to die, who…" He trailed off, but he didn't need to finish. House paused, glancing up from the candy bar to look over at Wilson again, and his best friend hesitated as he flicked his gaze toward the other man. Brown eyes met ocean blue, both gazes filled with pain that neither of them would ever be able to properly express, and _Wilson_ was the first to break eye contact, looking down at the candy bar and fiddling quietly with the wrapper. "Doesn't matter." He kept saying that. Why did he keep saying that? "I'm just tired, House."

House hesitated for a moment, looking toward the TV. It was the easiest thing to root his attention to that wasn't Wilson. "I know," he finally responded, somewhat defeated. They were _both_ tired, in every sense of the word. It was ridiculous. Neither of them were having fun on this road trip, not anymore. The first few months had been ecstatic, traveling together, laughing, reminiscing, just being there for one another. Then Wilson started getting sicker, and House got a little quieter, and he started urging them to settle down more and more often so that he could properly care for his best friend. And now both of them were stuck, and trapped, and miserable. And House didn't regret what he'd done, not for a second. He was glad to have this time with Wilson. And for a while there, they'd even managed to have some genuine, actual fun together. But it didn't make the fact that he was dying any less painful for either of them.

Wilson didn't want to die like this. House didn't want him to die at all. He wasn't one for compromise - he never had been - but while he was pretending, maybe he could pretend he was someone who was good at it. Pretend he was someone who could meet his best friend halfway for the first time, knowing it was everything Wilson deserved to have right then. He deserved a good friend. He deserved to get what he wanted… no, what he _needed_ , now. It hurt, it hurt like a motherfucker, but it was going to hurt anyway. That was the point, wasn't it? House couldn't get what he wanted no matter the situation, but if he could make things a little better for Wilson, why shouldn't he go along with it? Why should he choose himself over his best friend, like he always did, like he couldn't stop doing, time and time again? The man was dying.

The man was as _good_ as _dead_. All he was asking for was a hospital bed and chemotherapy. Despite the pain he knew it would put him through, House didn't have any more arguments.

Pain clenched his chest hard, the tightness almost enough to render him speechless. But he spoke as he glared at the TV, despising himself fervently with every fiber of his being. He'd meant it when he said Wilson was the only one he listened to, but it didn't mean he didn't hate it. "We should do it," he muttered half-heartedly. The wrapper Wilson was crinkling between his fingers abruptly silenced, and House breathed in through his teeth as he rolled his head around against the headboard to look over at his best friend. "If you want to do it, then we should do it."

The way Wilson stared at him then was almost heartbreaking. Confusion mixed with distrust, flickers of disbelief and wariness. But the longer he held House's gaze, the quicker those emotions faded away, rapidly replaced with surprise and bewilderment - not that _that_ sentiment didn't quite hurt either, but House found it a bit more preferable than the distrust and skepticism. "You're serious?" Wilson marveled after a moment, pushing a hand down against his mattress to sit himself up a little. He reached out without looking, fingers roaming blindly for the remote, and he only looked away when he finally managed to grab it so that he could mute the TV. House spared only a quick, split-second glance toward it before he glanced back at Wilson again, offering a faint nod back at his best friend as Wilson looked back up at him. "Do you think…?"

"No," House admitted immediately. He wasn't going to entertain the idea that Wilson would be okay. Hell, that would mean something good would have to happen in his life, and at that point, the man had found it easier to accept that he was destined to be miserable. "But you want to. And I think _that_ matters." He paused, flicking his gaze across Wilson's face cautiously, as his best friend's red-rimmed eyes widened. He saw flickers of relief, of _hope_ , things he knew he shouldn't be seeing from a dying man with only three weeks left to live. To see those emotions written across his friend's face now should have brought more harm than joy, but House didn't think he'd ever been happier to see the hints of a smile ghosting at the other man's lips. Something about it was… encouraging, almost. "So let's do it. I've got a fake ID and you've still got health coverage. We'll find a hospital tomorrow, bunker down and get you your chemo."

"Great." Wilson huffed out a breathless laugh. House was mortified to see the tears pricking at the corners of his eyes, his own relief rapidly fading. Once again, he worried; he _stressed_. Was this the right call? Was it cruel? House knew no amount of chemotherapy could help his best friend now, he was certain the cancer had grown, maybe even spread. He was certain it had gotten _worse._ But Wilson seemed to be playing with the idea that he could still get better - and the only thing worse than dying _knowing_ that you're dying, was dying with hope that you weren't.

But it was too late now, and House… well, he didn't quite have the heart to change his mind. This was Wilson's life - Wilson's _death_ \- and it was his choice, whether House liked it or not. And Wilson looked so _happy_ right then; House couldn't remember the last time he'd seen him smile like that, couldn't remember the last time a flicker of excitement and genuine joy had pierced through the dull pain that usually clouded his caramel eyes. He was House's best friend, like family to him. The only family that really mattered in his awful, miserable life. The family that was about to disappear, wasting away and dying right before his eyes. He might have been a shitty friend, but Gregory House had never, _ever_ wanted James Wilson to be miserable.

So he wouldn't say anything. He'd stay by his best friend's side, and he'd be as quiet as he'd learned to be the past few weeks, and he'd support Wilson, like best friends were supposed to.

 _Everybody lies,_ he reminded himself. Maybe he wasn't quite lying - Wilson knew he didn't want to do this, but he would go along with it anyway for his best friend's sake. Pretending wasn't quite the same as lying (though maybe by omission), but it didn't matter. Wouldn't be the first time. And it wouldn't be the first time House had lied in an attempt to protect his best friend.

He wondered if it would be the last. The thought made him grimace.

 _And everybody dies._ House finally bit off a piece of his chocolate bar as Wilson unmuted the TV, but he let it fade to nothing more than background noise as he fixed his gaze on the wall. Everybody died. It was funny, he always thought he'd had a pretty good grasp on mortality. He'd been a damn doctor, for crying out loud, and while he definitely had only chosen that career for the sake of _mystery_ rather than the thrill of saving lives, he hadn't had any particular aversion to death. No more than anyone else had, anyway. Most of the time, he managed to be apathetic about it, and managed to be somewhat indifferent. He hated losing patients, but who didn't? It was even worse if he allowed himself to get attached to them, for even a split second, a moment in time. That was what ruined him. People ruined him. Relationships ruined him. Compassion. Empathy. _Feelings._ Humanity was its own worst enemy - and it was House's arch-nemesis.

Everybody died. House tried not to let it get to him, but every once in a while, he let some bitterness, some anger, _pain_ seep through the cracks of his carefully-constructed guard. The worst part was the man in the bed beside his, the man rapidly approaching his own death. The worst part was his best friend. The worst part was the incurable disease eating away at him.

The worst part was knowing he'd done everything right, knowing that he had done everything he was supposed to do, everything he _could_ do, and Wilson was dying anyway. It was unfair, the amount of guilt he was feeling. It was unfair to shame himself so harshly for this. It was cancer. Doctors had tried to find a cure, and they had failed. Maybe he did have some kind of God complex, he mused. Maybe he did - at least, at one point - feel like he had some sort of superiority over other doctors. He solved cases nobody else in Jersey could, hadn't he? So maybe putting the weight of something as grand and _horrible_ as cancer on his shoulders was unfair, but House couldn't help himself. He couldn't help but think he should have noticed it sooner. He should have figured it out. He should have been able to do something, _anything._

"Thank you," Wilson said suddenly. His voice was quiet, still out of breath. House glanced over, watching his best friend's chest heave as he fought for air, watched his jaw tighten as he swallowed, likely fighting his way through another coughing fit. The thought alone made his chest itch, and he couldn't keep himself from clearing his throat in time, ripping his gaze away. "I know you don't want to do this," his friend continued softly. "But I… I need this. So thank you."

"Yeah." Maybe he had done something. He just wished it was enough. "What are friends for?"


	2. I See You, I Feel You

House sat to the side, twirling his cane, while Wilson checked in with the hospital receptionist.

Nothing much had happened the night before, after their talk. His best friend had gone to bed at midnight on the dot, and House… for the most part, had stayed awake. He slept for about two hours before he woke up to Wilson's quiet, pained groans. Nothing he wasn't used to, he didn't get much sleep anymore as it was; he only got a few hours at night, mostly sitting awake and watching Wilson toss and turn and wince whenever he so much as moved even an inch. He was just happy Wilson was able to sleep to begin with, though he'd be lying if he said he hadn't thought about waking him up so he wouldn't be alone in the middle of the night more than once. But he knew his best friend needed as much sleep as he could get, now especially, so he left him alone and did his own thing as noiselessly as possible so to avoid waking him up. (Besides, Wilson wasn't a morning person. He was grumpy enough when he just woke up when he wasn't dying from an incurable disease, and clearly the cancer already made him a little more snippy).

Regardless, they'd packed up and headed out in the morning. House had researched the nearest hospitals with the most good reviews, and they'd packed up their motorcycles, gotten in the car and checked out of the hotel. He had a feeling they'd be staying here for a while now. Probably for the remainder of Wilson's last three weeks. So he might as well start thinking of this place as his home, and take note of all the lounges and offices they passed so he could determine where he'd be taking his naps while Wilson was going through testing. He wasn't a doctor here, so it wasn't like he could sit behind glass and watch his best friend go through the CT machine, and he assumed if there were any good doctors in this place, they'd want to schedule a CT scan before they went forward with _any_ kind of treatment for his best friend.

He wondered if Wilson was nervous, because House sure as hell was. He wondered if Wilson was even eligible for treatment, or if they'd turn him away because it was a waste of chemo. Imagine telling someone who had cancer that they were a waste of chemo. Not that it was something House _wouldn't_ do, but he wasn't exactly a role model when it came to other doctors.

That being said, if someone even dared to look at Wilson and tell him that - regardless of whether or not it was true - House already had a foolproof plan to raise as much hell as was physically possible (without getting into serious trouble, obviously) to get his best friend the treatment he wanted. Any other time he'd use it as an excuse to say 'oh well, we tried' and walk out, and he knew that just as well, but Wilson was dying and House hadn't really had a chance to take his anger out on anyone recently, so, yeah, he'd get Wilson the chemo out of pure _spite_.

"And who are you, sir?" Ah, the receptionist was talking to him now. He flicked his gaze up, tipping his head to the side and letting his hand fall still against the cane for a second.

She was pretty good-looking. He made a mental note of that as he responded, resting his chin on the handle of his cane. "Greg Wilson," he told her, and the woman ducked her head to type it in while Wilson rolled his eyes, ever so subtly. They'd decided 'Wilson' was a good last name to go with; his best friend usually went the brother route when they were asked if they had any relation, but House had no problem with letting others assume the two of them were married.

"We had an appointment scheduled for ten-thirty to meet with an oncologist," Wilson explained. He shifted suddenly, moving over to sit down in the seat beside House's; he watched silently, narrowing his eyes faintly and continuing to twirl his cane. Sweat was already forming, tiny beads appearing on his best friend's forehead. His hands were twitching, too, lightly fumbling with the front of his shirt. The receptionist just nodded again, moving her hands from the clipboard to the mouse and clicking something rapidly, and House lowered his head a little. He was irritated, but, seeing as Wilson was already nervous, he decided against giving the strikingly hot woman a hard time. Instead, he turned his attention back to Wilson, and lightly reached out to prod his best friend's knee with the bottom of his cane, prompting him to jump.

"You're drenched," House grunted, arching an eyebrow at the glare Wilson shot him as his best friend reached up to run his fingers through his hair, slicking his hair back silently. He wasn't lying, exactly; he _was_ drenched, but honestly, House figured it had more to do with the shower the other man had taken that morning rather than the sweat dripping down his face right then.

"I'm fine," Wilson muttered.

"Statistically, Wilson, it's kind of impossible for you to be 'fine' right now."

Wilson hesitated at that, but, eventually, he offered a half-shrug as if to say 'yeah, true'. House sat back again and twirled his cane to his other hand so he could reach into his pocket for his pills. "Hope you're not having second thoughts," he commented off-handedly after a moment, popping the cap off and tilting the bottle to let the pills slide down, counting out three and letting them settle into the palm of his hand. He liked the way they felt in his hand, the way they clumped together. But, even more satisfying, he liked the way they felt when they slid off of his skin, dropping from his hand to his mouth. And he liked the way they felt on his tongue as he swirled them around a little, letting some of his saliva coat the thick white capsules before he swallowed them. He liked all of those things - but mostly, he just liked the numbness, the bliss.

His friend was watching him as he put the bottle away and continued twirling his cane, and House didn't miss the frown tugging at his lips. "I'm not…" Wilson assured, trailing off slightly. "You just took three pills." House shrugged, and so Wilson continued, prodding tentatively, "are you doing okay? I don't think I've ever seen you take more than two at once before."

"Well, I've definitely done it." House thought back to prison, so desperate for the pills, desperate for the pain in his leg to go away. He could feel it clenching up already just by thinking about it. The man grimaced, ducking his head slightly. His hand found his leg, somewhat unconsciously. He could feel the scar underneath the fabric of his jeans, the sunken skin, the places his muscle had been chopped out of him. Touching it didn't quite help the pain, though it didn't make it worse - he did, however, find that being able to feel the pressure distracted him somewhat. That was why he took to rubbing his leg every so often when the pain got particularly bad; it didn't help, but the sensation, the movement, the pressure, was a good distraction, if nothing else. "Relax, _honey_ , I'm fine," he sighed, rubbing his leg again. "You're dying, and worried about _me."_

"Dying doing what I did when I was living," Wilson mumbled, and House rolled his eyes toward the other man, narrowing his eyes slightly in response. Brown eyes flicked across his face wordlessly, and House shook his head slightly, as if that could interrupt Wilson's assessment. "Worrying about you. It is kind of funny, isn't it? I have cancer, and I'm worrying about you," his best friend commented dryly. But House didn't miss the small smile tugging at his lips, the way his clouded gaze seemed to water, glistening with tears that hadn't quite risen just yet. "It's kind of comforting. I think you've been the one constant in my life. The only one that's ever…" His best friend stopped, and House sat back slightly, watching his Adam's apple bob slightly as he forced himself to swallow. He wasn't looking at House now, making a conscious effort to look at just about everything else around them now. He was almost tempted to reach out, to turn Wilson's face back toward him himself and make him look him in the eyes while he spoke - and that kind of surprised him, because House wasn't really one for the 'mushy, gushy moments'.

His breathing shuddered slightly as he exhaled, a sudden rush of pain catching him off guard. This kind of pain was somehow worse than his leg. This, he couldn't fix with a few Vicodin. Not that it stopped him from trying, not that it _would_ , but right then he knew nothing would help it. It was the kind of pain that came with realizing this could be one of his last _moments_ with Wilson. It could very well even be his last chance to suck up his pride and tell his friend how much he really meant to him. Not that Wilson needed reminding, he knew that. But the man was dying. And when he died, House would be alone. There would be nobody there for him anymore; Wilson was all he was, all he had, all he needed, and he was going to be _gone_. He'd be gone, and House wouldn't have anything left. He'd just be there. Just existing, existing without Wilson. It wasn't fair. It wasn't _fair;_ Wilson was the _last_ person who deserved this kind of shit. He might have been drugged up on chemo when he said - implied - that _House_ would deserve it, but he hadn't been entirely wrong. Honestly, House wished it had been him instead of Wilson. And at the same time, he didn't, because he wouldn't want this for his best friend, either. He would never wish this kind of misery on anybody, the pain that came with someone you love dying. Knowing they were dying, having them right there beside you while they did, and not being able to do anything. No, House wouldn't even wish this on his worst enemy. This was _excruciating._

"Excuse me," the receptionist called, and House looked up even before Wilson did. The woman smiled at them from behind the counter, and normally House would have offered some kind of attempt at a charming grin in response, but he couldn't force his mouth to move as she spoke. "You can go sit in the waiting room, someone will call you back as soon as possible."

Wilson reacted first this time, pushing himself to stand and thanking the woman, but it took House a second to recompose himself enough to heave himself to his feet. Once again, he lapsed into silence, but he didn't hesitate to follow Wilson to the waiting room. Call him a privileged white asshole all you want, but he was used to getting better treatment than this. Not working at a hospital really kinda hindered the service, didn't it? But he wasn't about to complain and risk not being able to have Wilson get his treatment. He kept his mouth shut as Wilson sat down near a corner in the waiting room, sinking into the seat beside him with a heavy sigh.

"This sucks," Wilson said suddenly. House hummed in response, bobbing his head lightly in agreement, while his best friend wrung his hands around the front of his shirt anxiously.

"We can leave if you want," he offered, and Wilson shook his head.

"I don't want to leave, I just…" Wilson trailed off for a moment, looking frustrated, of all things. Then, just as suddenly, he was speaking again, changing the subject before House could react. "Are you sure you're okay? You've been really quiet," he mumbled, picking at his shirt lightly. House rolled his eyes despite himself at that, and Wilson grimaced at him. "House, seriously."

House sighed. "Most people would consider that a blessing. I've already told you, I'm fine. And I'm being quiet because I know the chemo you're about to receive comes with a nasty side-effect of migraines and, contrary to popular belief, I'm capable of acting nice sometimes." He shifted a little in the seat, propping the cane up between his legs and shifting his hands to his bad one to support it, lifting it up and crossing it over the other one carefully with a grimace. "You're an oncologist, yeah? Your job is to worry about people with cancer. So do that. You've got cancer, I don't have cancer, it's very easy to see where your priorities should be right now."

Wilson arched an eyebrow in response, looking down and spinning one of the buttons on his shirt. "Wow, if you're actively trying to divert my attention from whatever's wrong, then it's bad," he decided dryly after a moment, and House scoffed. "Oh, wait, nevermind, you always do that."

"Always?" House sucked in a gasp, widening his eyes dramatically. "That hurts, Wilson. You know I have to go seeking for your attention sometimes. Otherwise you'll get bored with me."

"You're getting us mixed up again," Wilson corrected. He was smiling slightly now, his eyes clearer than they had been in weeks. House bit back a smile of his own, briefly turning his attention away to glance around the room. Good. Whatever he had to do to put his best friend in a good mood without actually letting Wilson know what he was up to. He was just sick of seeing the guy so damn miserable. "You don't have to be interesting for me to give a crap about you."

"That's sweet," House hummed. "I'll get that tattooed on my chest when you die."

Wilson winced, but chuckled. "Your chest?"

"Right over the heart."

"You're an idiot," Wilson huffed with a laugh, and House couldn't keep back a smirk this time. Moments like this, those were the moments he missed most of all. The ones he'd miss even more when Wilson was dead and gone, and he had nobody to playfully banter around with.

"I'll have that tattooed on the back of my neck." House stretched his arms out over the back of his chair. "I'd put it on my forehead, but that spot's taken for another quote. 'It's not lupus'."

Wilson's entire body shook with surprisingly quiet laughter, and House finally let a chuckle of his own break free. "Where's 'everybody lies' gonna go?" His best friend asked suddenly, grinning. House paused at that, tilting his head to the side thoughtfully, while Wilson snickered to himself. Egged on by his best friend's amusement, and determined to draw this moment out as much as he possibly could, House tapped his fingers against the back of Wilson's seat and smirked.

"Where the sun doesn't shine, my friend." He bobbed his head lightly. "I was thinking of getting all of the lyrics to 'My Heart Will Go On' tattooed on my back, too. Just for the memories."

Wilson laughed and opened his mouth to respond, but he didn't have the chance to do so. Someone called his name from across the room, and both of their heads whirled around so fast it was a blessing neither of them got whiplash just by turning around to look. House sat forward at once, shifting his arm to grab his cane and push himself up. Wilson took a second to stand, grabbing the arms of his chair and heaving himself to his feet, and House reached out after a moment to steady him, pulling him up the rest of the way and holding on until he could stand. His best friend shot him a grateful look, one House didn't acknowledge, and they made their way across the room to the nurse that had called them over, stepping through the doors and following her to the elevator, to where she was taking them to the room they'd be staying in. He tightened his grip on his cane and looked toward Wilson; he looked just as nervous as he felt.

When they got to the room, House sat himself in a chair and just watched as the nurse worked over Wilson, checking his weight and height and blood pressure. She was just in the process of checking his lungs - thanks to a particularly bad coughing fit he'd launched into when they entered the room - when the door opened and who House assumed was the doctor walked in.

"James Wilson," he greeted, offering a handshake to Wilson, which he accepted immediately. He then offered the same to House, and the former doctor accepted it much more reluctantly. "I'm Dr. Meyers, the oncologist." He beamed as he pulled up the stool under the sink - which House made a mental note of immediately - and sat down, crossing his legs. "So, what're we looking at today?" Wilson wasted no time in launching into the explanation, while the nurse collected her clipboard and left the room when her pager suddenly went off, rushing out. House watched her go, staring at the door as it shut, before he turned his attention back to them.

By the time Wilson finished, Meyers was nodding along enthusiastically. House relaxed slightly, and tried not to feel too disgusted by the disappointment twisting in his chest. "Chemo, got it." The doctor snapped his fingers, and House watched Wilson's lips tug upwards, just briefly. "First off, I'd like to run some tests of my own, just to see what we're dealing with now and the kind of treatments and time we're looking at here, so I'll get you scheduled for a CT scan to start."

Wilson managed to look a little more nervous as he nodded. "Sounds good, thank you."

House bounced his cane lightly as the doctor left, immediately heaving himself up and walking over to sit down on the stool. Wilson watched him quietly as he sat down, pulling his legs up as much as he could, and used the cane to push him a little to spin around on the stool silently.

"You're like a five year old," Wilson sighed. "I can't take you to the hospital." House chuckled at that, letting the stool slow to a stop and turning to face Wilson again. "... you think it's grown?"

"I'd be shocked if it hasn't." House lifted the cane up over his head, pressing it against the back of his head and stretching his arms out over both sides of it, letting his hands hang down beside his head. Wilson grimaced and sank back a little, leaning his head back against the pillow and squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Remembering how the tumor had looked last time, yeah, he had a bad feeling about this. But it was necessary. He couldn't stop them from doing the tests, then Wilson wouldn't get treatment. Honestly, if he didn't think he was at huge risk of getting caught and turned in to the police and having the whole 'faking his death' thing be caught red-handed, he'd steal some chemo and administer it to Wilson himself, but he knew he couldn't do all that. "It'll either be bad enough for them to give you chemo right away, or too bad to treat at all."

Wilson didn't respond. He lifted a hand and rubbed it down his face, seeming too exhausted to really be upset right then, and House fell silent to continue spinning himself around on the stool. A few minutes passed by like that - he watched the clock - before Wilson sat forward again and crossed his arms over his lap, watching him through those half-lidded, exhausted caramel eyes. "Have you eaten today?" He asked suddenly, and House slowed to a stop again, bewildered.

Odd question. Had he eaten? He knew Wilson had had some kind of frozen meal for breakfast, he remembered because he'd sat on the edge of the tub and held him up while his best friend spilled it all right back up into the toilet bowl. House hadn't been particularly hungry before that, and he definitely hadn't been in the mood to eat after that. Wilson had showered, and they left.

"Whatever answer makes you happier," House decided after a second. "Yes."

Wilson shot him a glare, and House offered a half-hearted shrug, spinning himself around again. "Go get yourself something to eat from the cafeteria," his best friend ordered after a moment. "You're no use to me if you kill yourself from starvation, and you are _not_ dying before I do now." House snorted despite himself at that, managing an amused smile while his back was turned. Yeah, right, he _wished._ That would save him a hell of a lot of pain right about then. But, then, Wilson would be alone, and he just couldn't do that to him, could he? The former doctor hummed to himself, hooking his cane around the leg of the other chair and spinning back around to face Wilson again, grabbing onto the edge of the bed to bring himself to a sharp stop.

"You know, Wilson." He spun the cane from one hand to the other, planting it directly in front of him, and spared a lazy glance up at his companion. "The whole 'married' thing is just _pretend_. Not that you fussing over me like a housewife isn't sexy and all, but it's not a requirement."

"Then take me to vegas," Wilson snapped, and House raised his eyebrows in surprise, blinking. "Until then, your _fake_ husband is ordering you to go get some food before you pass out."

He huffed out a startled laugh, leaning back. "Wow, dominant. I like it."

"There's more where that came from," Wilson muttered under his breath, and House chuckled. "Especially if you don't get your limpy ass to the cafeteria soon." He laid back again, crossing his arms over his face, and House bit back a smile, watching him curiously for a moment. He knew Wilson wasn't trying to get _rid_ of him, he couldn't imagine the man wanted to be alone. Especially not right then, not with everything going on. His genuine concern was, as it always was, so sickly sweet. It made him want to throw up, and yet at the same time, it made his heart burst. He couldn't describe the feeling in his chest, he just knew it was painful, but he liked it. It was the same kind of excitement, the thrill puzzles gave him. The kind of rush he got from solving a case, the kind of ecstatic buzz he received at the possibility of a medical mystery. And yet at the same time, it was the same kind of odd frustration he felt when he was working. Knowing someone cared about him - knowing _Wilson_ cared - it was just… too perfect.

"I'll get something when they take you back for the CT scan," House promised eventually, and Wilson sighed, but he nodded his head and let his arms drift from his face to hold his stomach. "And then I'll be right back here waiting for you. I'll see if they have those disgusting cookies," he offered, and Wilson let out a quiet laugh and rolled his head to the side, gazing at him tiredly.

He smiled, suddenly, and something just _clicked_. House decided, in the span of one quick second, that his entire life - the misery, the pain, the anger and the bitterness and the nihilism, even the cancer taking his best friend from him - it was all worth it, no matter what happened, as long as he was able to see James Wilson smile just like that, with those drooping, tired eyes and those baby-ish dimples that made him look far too young despite the grey streaks peppering his mustache and sideburns, despite the stress lines creasing his forehead, despite the black and grey fuzz around his chin that he never let grow into a full beard. It was worth it. _He_ was worth it - he always had been, and he always would be - and that _smile_ was worth it.

His heart ached for the man, the man who would never know the extent of House's feelings no matter how much he longed to show him. Show, not tell. Sometimes he wished it was as easy as just telling him. Sometimes he wished he'd been able to tell him that night in the car.

But he wondered now - as he'd wondered then - how many times had Wilson heard it before? How many times had he heard those words spoken to him? How many times had it meant nothing? Far be it from House to assume they would mean anything coming from him. House, who was notorious for lying. House, who had never believed in the power of words, and never would. And he would never do that to Wilson. He would never belittle him like that, he would never patronize him, he would never think so low of him to feel like he needed to tell him _that._ He would never want to hurt him like that. It was one line Gregory House was unable to cross.

Especially now. Now, when they really, truly wouldn't mean anything.

"I'm glad you're here," Wilson mumbled suddenly - and, _god_ , he wasn't helping anything. House rolled his eyes and snorted - it felt like second nature to him - and flashed a smirk up at him.

"Where else would I be?"

Wilson's smile tugged into a grin, and his brown eyes lit up mischievously, with that look he so often wore when he was about to call House out for something. But he didn't get the chance, and he was honestly disappointed about it, because pretty soon, that door was opening again and the nurses were coming in to usher Wilson out to the CT room, and he was calling back to House to get something to eat - and House was responding, he said something like 'yes dear' or 'yes honey' and he honestly couldn't even remember what he'd said, because he could hardly focus on anything other than the way he had hoped for a second that Wilson might have finally realized something, that the expression on his face, the look in his eyes, that it might have been some kind of epiphany, like those oh-so rare ones House got all the time. And he wondered why he had hoped for something he wasn't exactly trying to hide, but also wasn't entirely psyched about being open with considering the circumstances now, either.

He heaved himself to his feet, leaning on his cane, and stepped out of the room. He didn't know where the cafeteria was - and being a man, he couldn't ask for directions - so he figured he'd wander for a bit, lose himself in his thoughts until he found it. Then maybe he'd eat something. And then maybe he'd bring back one of those stupid cookies for Wilson, but he'd also stop by the vending machine and grab him something _good_ to eat like those Hershey's chocolate bars.

And he'd pretend, for a moment, that it wasn't _pretend._ That maybe, somehow, they could be happy. That at least for a while, their lives didn't have to be horrible. Didn't have to be ending.

Didn't have to be miserable.


	3. That Is How I Know You Go On

One reuben sandwich, a coffee - black - and some chips later, House was limping back down the hall to Wilson's room with a chocolate bar and a raisin cookie clasped firmly in one hand.

As he walked, he reminded himself to be prepared for some tears. He didn't know how bad it was going to be, but he knew it had to be bad. He knew it was going to be bad enough to diminish a little bit of Wilson's hope, and thus be bad enough to break him down a little bit. He wasn't prepared to comfort, but he was prepared to sit in silence while Wilson cried, prepared to hand him tissues and hold back every 'I told you so' that rose to the tip of his tongue. Not that he _wanted_ to say such a thing, not that he was going to express any triumph or victory over it, but he knew himself well enough to know that he wouldn't be able to immediately resist insisting that he had tried to tell Wilson this wasn't a good idea all along. And he also knew he was going to regret it immediately if he _did_ end up saying something, so he was adamant about keeping his mouth shut and trying to be as supportive as an asshole of a best friend like him could be. After Wilson died, then it would be about him. But today was about Wilson. Today was Wilson's.

He steeled himself as he reached the room, tucking the snacks away in his pocket with his pills and reaching to open the door. He startled a little initially, upon seeing Wilson, but the shock was rapidly replaced with the abrupt, icy claws of dread. His best friend was hunched over on the bed with his face buried into his hands, shoulders shaking with repressed sobs. House could feel his breathing hitch slightly himself, felt his chest twist sharply, nausea rolling through his stomach like thunderclouds coming in for a storm, pouring a hazy rush of panic flush through the former doctor's entire body. He stepped into the room, moving mechanically, and pushed the door shut behind him almost numbly. He felt like he had when Wilson had dropped the news. But he'd been expecting this - why was he surprised? Why was he disappointed?

His mouth was dry and his lips felt chapped as he limped further into the room. Wilson didn't lift his head from his hands, but he had balled them into fists and was rubbing his face furiously with his head ducked. His sobs had turned into quiet, stifled coughs, but those weren't welcome either; his best friend was still trembling, every outline of his frail-looking body pulled taut, stiff. House lowered his head slightly, curling his fingers so tight around his cane he was almost afraid the handle might snap off in his grip. For once, he wished that he could have been wrong.

"That bad?" He offered in the silence. Wilson rubbed his face again, bringing one hand down to his mouth. He didn't look up, but House could see his face now, he could see his expression. He didn't… look particularly distraught, just mostly confused. The cripple fiddled with his cane for a moment, grappling for a hold on his emotions and struggling for any footholds he could get in the steep, dangerous mountain this conversation was going to turn into. It was a slippery slope. Wilson, wracked with emotions, with _fear_ , wasn't exactly fun to talk to. He was even harder to calm down, especially from a breakdown such as this. House didn't expect to walk away from this conversation without a few more war wounds, but he didn't care about that right then. It wasn't going to stop him from trying. "Look… I told you…" He stopped, and scowled at himself. That was exactly the kind of thing he hadn't wanted to say, and he went and said it instantly. He might as well continue, though, so he did, "we both knew what to expect from this, Wilson. We both knew it wasn't going to be…" He stopped, eyebrows furrowing, as Wilson shook his head.

"House," his voice was hushed, almost as if he were afraid to speak any louder, as if he was afraid someone might hear. House couldn't help but take a few more steps forward, even though he could hear his best friend just fine. It was an excuse to come closer, to express as much physical support as he could without actually having to get close to the other man. Wilson lifted a hand, rubbing his arm over his face before he finally lifted his head. His wide brown eyes flicked up to House's blue ones, filled with tears and surprisingly clear. "My tumor," he began, voice trembling, and the former doctor braced himself. He waited for Wilson to say that it had grown, or worse, that it had metastasized. Thymoma usually didn't spread, but House's entire job had been about forgetting what diseases and illnesses 'usually' did or didn't do. It was still entirely possible, albeit rare, but knowing his and Wilson's luck, that had to be the case now. He waited for him to say that it was worse than either of them could have feared. He waited for him to say there was nothing the doctors could do, that House had been right, it wasn't treatable.

Instead, every muscle in his body seeming to quiver, Wilson peered up at House through his eyelashes as another tear rose and escaped, squeezing itself out from his bottom eyelid and tracking down the left side of his face, and his voice was even quieter as he spoke. "It shrunk."

House wavered where he stood as his legs went numb, the cane slipping from his grasp and hitting the floor with an audible _thunk._ It was sheer luck that House didn't fall down right after it.

Wilson flinched as the cane hit the floor, and for a moment he looked worried that House _would_ lose his balance. But the former doctor managed to grip the edge of the counter, taking a few stumbling steps forward and curling his hand around the corner as much as he was able to. Once Wilson was sure that he wasn't going to fall, he rubbed his nose, breathed in shakily, and continued a little more carefully. "Th- the CT showed… the tumor's size had decreased significantly f- from what it was. I looked over the scans myself, and- we did another one just to be sure that the imaging hadn't messed up or…" Once again, he settled his hand over his mouth, and House tightened his grip on the edge of the counter, staring at him almost blankly. "They said if I go through about a week of chemo, it'd be small enough to operate," Wilson whispered. House's head reeled, struggling to take in the information. "And I- I'll be… _fine_."

"Don't do that to me, Wilson," House hissed, letting the sharp corner of the counter press into his palm. His best friend stared at him incredulously through the tears in his eyes, and House had to fight past the prickling in his own eyes as he went on, "if this is some kind of sick joke," the man managed to spit out, forcing himself to breathe past the crushing weight on his chest. This couldn't be true, this wasn't happening, it wasn't right, it wasn't fucking _possible._ There was no reason, absolutely none, for Wilson to be getting better. If anything, his health had been rapidly _declining_ recently. He was coughing, wheezing, having trouble standing. He wasn't getting better. House had been around enough dying people to know when they were getting worse. "Some attempt at mockery," he growled. "If you're gonna say 'sike, you were right'-"

"You-" Wilson seemed startled out of his tears then, staring at him in pure bewilderment. They continued to fall, but the pained look on his face had been replaced with hurt. "You think I'd…"

Unable to support his own weight, House let his grip on the counter fall slack and sank to the floor, barely using his hands to keep him from falling a little too hard. His leg was numb, both of them were. He couldn't feel either of them, even the right one. His chest was heaving, but he wasn't having any trouble breathing; he tested it a few times, sucking in air through his nose, and then his mouth. Physically, he was fine. Emotionally, it felt like someone had ripped his chest and heart out and was running them both through a paper shredder. His stomach was in knots, a surprisingly sickening emotion to accompany the news that he'd just received.

"House," Wilson breathed. "I'm not lying. I'm not- it's not a _joke_ , I would never- you want to see the scans yourself? I can get the- the doctor to bring them in, and-" He ran his fingers through his hair, and House tilted his head up a little to stare up at him, almost taken aback. He really wasn't kidding, this wasn't a joke. Wilson's tumor had actually shrunk. He was actually okay. Well, maybe not _okay_ , but it wasn't worse. It wasn't anything he'd expected it to be, just the opposite. All of that preparation, all the dread and the anger and the fear had been for nothing. Every fight they'd almost had, every time they'd argued, every day House counted down. It had all been for nothing - and yet, it had been for everything - because Wilson's tumor had _shrunk._ Because Wilson's cancer was _treatable._ Because within a _week_ , just like that, he could have that surgery and they could walk out of the hospital together and Wilson _wouldn't be dying._

As the shock faded, House let the back of his head hit the counter and stared at his friend. Skepticism fizzled out, rapidly replaced with relief, and _hope_. Hope that, admittedly, he'd been unaware he was carrying the entire time. Of course he'd been trying to fight it, suppress it, mask it, to the point where even he, himself, hadn't realized he was feeling it in the first place. But he had been, and he was feeling it now, pulsing stronger than ever. Hope, and something akin to excitement. The relief itself was palpable; Wilson seemed to relax the moment House had sunk his weight back against the counter, and though the tears in his eyes had returned, a relieved smile was making his way onto his face. House found himself mirroring the expression at once. His own relief brought a few tears to his own eyes, but he blinked those away easily enough.

For the first time in his life, the _how_ and _why_ didn't matter as much. In fact, for the first time in his life, Gregory House - for a moment in time - could almost believe that there was a God. For the very first time, he was willing to accept whatever answer was thrown at him right then. He didn't give a shit how Wilson could have possibly recovered, how he could be getting better, how he wasn't actually going to be losing his best friend in three weeks. If it _was_ God, great. House would be on his knees in a church every damn Sunday if it meant Wilson was there, too.

"They're gonna start me on chemo today." Wilson shifted suddenly, pushing himself up off of the bed. House watched him reach down to pick his cane up off of the floor, turning it around in his hands a few times before he held it out to House, holding it by the bottom; the former doctor wrapped his hand around the handle, offering a nod in thanks. "And if it goes well…"

"Surgery," House murmured. He swallowed, heaving out a surprisingly gentle sigh. "Yeah."

Wilson offered him a hand to help him up, but House grabbed onto the counter instead. He wasn't going to risk pulling Wilson down on top of him or something - not only would that be spectacularly painful for the both of them, but it would lead to an awkward moment that House's already-fried brain couldn't handle at the moment. He didn't think he'd be able to properly come up with any dirty jokes for that kind of scenario right then if he tried, still attempting to wrap his mind around everything. He heaved himself up to his feet, using his cane to steady himself once he had managed to get a good grip on the floor with it, and Wilson dropped his hand with a sigh. "Wasn't expecting you to actually fall down." Wilson chuckled, but his expression was understanding, a knowing look in his caramel eyes as he searched House's gaze. "You okay?"

"My formerly terminal friend has a chance to walk out of the hospital cancer-free within a week." House arched an eyebrow at him. "Yeah, Jimmy. At least, I think I'll _live_."

Wilson's sweat and tear-drenched face split into a grin, nothing but amusement and affection reflected in his tired gaze. House studied him for a moment, once again feeling a rush of relief at the thought that this might be one of the last times he had to see Wilson so exhausted, so pained. If all went well, and House was _praying_ that it would at this point, grasping at straws for any bit of hope he could get right then, then Wilson wouldn't be in pain. He wouldn't be tired. He wouldn't be sweating all day and night. No more tossing and turning, no more wincing when he moved and grunting when he stood up, no stumbling and staggering as he lost his balance, no pulling over on the side of the road to throw up while House held him steady. In a way, the former doctor marveled that he might almost miss it. Wilson had spent the better years of their friendship with House clinging to him like a lifeline, relying on him for emotional - and sometimes physical - support and practically using the man as a liferaft. Not that Wilson, who pretty much fed off of neediness, minded it _too_ much - but the roles had flipped drastically after Wilson's diagnosis, and more so after they'd hit the road together. He'd found, as much as he hated seeing Wilson like this, he could also very much so get used to the fact that he _needed_ him.

He liked taking care of Wilson, he realized. Not just having Wilson rely on him for something, but he liked being there. He liked being the support net for once. He liked having a role in the friendship that wasn't completely centered around being a needy bastard with abandonment and attention issues. The revelation was startling, but one that brought him an odd sense of comfort. Yes, he would definitely miss it, but he could live with that. As long as Wilson lived. Besides, who was to say House couldn't still look after him? He wouldn't be dying, but he would still need that steady stream of support House had been trying to offer him recently, and House… for the first time, he wasn't willing to jump at the opportunity to go back to 'normal'.

Wilson wavered suddenly, swaying where he stood, and it only took House about a second to move forward to support him. He wrapped an arm around his best friend, and the other man clasped a hand over his shoulder and held on tightly as House moved him back over to the bed. "Too much excitement for one day, huh?" House mumbled, quirking his lips up into a smirk. Wilson heaved out a chuckle, barely managing to lift his arm up to cough into his elbow in time.

"Did you eat?" He rasped when he'd finished, clear caramel eyes boring into House's intently.

"Odd thing to ask me after _you_ nearly faint and dive into a coughing fit," House retorted. But he conceded, shifting his weight onto his cane and reaching into his pocket. "Yes. I had a reuben. In about a few hours, it'll digest and come right back out on the _other_ side. Do you want details on that too or are you only interested in what I put in up here?" He stuck his tongue out slightly, ignoring the disgusted yet amused look on Wilson's face, as he pulled the chocolate and cookie out of his pocket and handed them over. "As promised, one of those disgusting cookies you like. Oh, and something that actually tastes good, y'know, to rid your mouth of the taste afterward."

Wilson took both snacks happily, but not without an indignant glance as he did. "It's not disgusting. It's _raisin_. Which is actually, you know, better for you than chocolate chips?" He looked down at the chocolate bar and cookie for a moment, fumbling with both wrappers, but eventually put the former aside so that he could open the cookie. "Besides, they do taste good."

"It's not the raisins I have a problem with." House watched him fiddle with the wrapper for a moment, seeming to like the way it crinkled between his fingers, before he finally tore it open. The former doctor shifted his weight again, turning his head away briefly to look around and eventually extending his cane to reach out and pull the stool toward him with it with a hum. "But hospital food absolutely sucks, even the snacks - especially the snacks - and every cookie I've ever eaten in every hospital I've ever been to, be it raisin or chocolate chip or even _sugar_ , have been the most disgusting cookies I've ever had the displeasure of biting into. I've had no reason to believe any hospital food will ever be any less disgusting. Especially snacks, again." He sat down sharply at the end of his rant, and offered a pleased smile when he went rolling back on the stool. Just as dramatic as he had hoped. Wilson, meanwhile, was staring at him with a curious expression on his face now, his head tilted to the side and a quizzical look in his eyes. "What?"

"I think that, alone, is the most you've said to me in one breath in weeks," Wilson admitted. House furrowed his eyebrows silently, but his best friend smiled after a moment, almost relieved. "Like I said, you've been quiet. Not just today, but for a while now. It's comforting," he huffed out a breathless chuckle and looked down, peeling the wrapper down over the cookie. "Knowing you're still capable of going on loud, obnoxious rants about something painfully trivial." House couldn't help but smirk a little at that, hooking his cane around the back of his neck.

"Well, I'm in a good mood today." He leaned back a little bit, just for a second, and studied his best friend as Wilson hummed and bit into the cookie. Well, maybe he'd been a little quieter than he'd meant to recently. Wilson was right, he was usually more talkative - but his mood had somewhat mirrored his best friend's health, rapidly declining as time went on and on. It was easier to deal with everything in silence while he took care of his best friend, so he stayed quiet. He didn't see any reason for that to change immediately as of right now, to launch back into the sarcasm and jokes and constant 'rants about something painfully trivial', though he didn't see anything wrong with that later. For now, though, he was still very much aware of the pain his friend was in, and the condition he would be in when he started chemo, so he would hold off. He would hold off, and he'd just be there. Because he liked being there. He liked taking care of him.

He looked up when the nurse poked her head in, offering a bright smile to the two. She was a little young, maybe in her twenties, but she was pretty cute - so _obviously_ House had to flash her a grin, and obviously her eyes practically sparkled as she checked him over, hesitating a bit before she seemed to snap back to her senses - mostly due to Wilson clearing his throat rather loudly (way to be a jealous fake-husband, Jimmy) - and turned her attention back to Wilson. "We're gonna move you up to a more comfortable room, yeah? We've got the chemo set up."

"Perfect," Wilson breathed, and his eyes were practically sparkling, brighter than a million stars. House rolled his own despite himself, but he couldn't bite back a smile in time as he heaved himself up off of the stool and limped over to his best friend while Wilson slid down off the bed. House caught him this time when he staggered, letting the man fall sideways into him briefly, and he waited patiently for Wilson to right himself and regain his balance enough before they started walking. Wilson's hand dug into his side, curling tightly against his jacket, and House squeezed his arm back lightly in response. He didn't miss the smile Wilson offered, relief and gratitude etched clearly across his face, but he pretended that he had. Pretending he'd missed it made it easier, so that he didn't have to react to it, he didn't have to smile back at him, he didn't have to accept the silent 'thanks' with a just-as-silent 'you're welcome'. He just stayed silent, one arm around his best friend and the other clutching his cane, as they followed the nurse back into the elevator and up to yet another floor, where they'd be staying while Wilson was treated.

It felt like a new day. A new life. A new chance for the both of them. Knowing Wilson's chance of survival was high left him giddy with relief, wracked with gratitude, himself. Gratitude directed at whom or what, he wasn't entirely sure. But it was there, and he felt it, he embraced it. Because that just meant there was something to embrace, that something good was happening, for once. It wasn't happening to him, he knew that - his luck had been sour for a long time now - but…

If anybody deserved this, it was James Wilson.

He was almost in a daze as they reached the room, as the nurse got Wilson settled in his bed and hooked him up to the IV. House scanned the word over the bag for a moment, barely keeping himself from mumbling it aloud as he did. Chemotherapy. That was all it would take. A week of chemotherapy, some surgery, and then Wilson would be good to go. It was almost too good to be true - and for a split second, he almost wondered if it was - but he shoved the thought as far down as he could. No, he was tired of the pessimism, tired of being too afraid to hope. He wanted to hope. He knew the risks, and he didn't care right then. He also knew something good could come out of this just as easily, and he was willing to look at that instead. He had to be, for both his sake and for Wilson's. So he sat himself down beside the bed while the nurse left, and he watched the IV intently as the medicine started pumping itself into Wilson's veins, and he smiled to himself, only for a second. Wilson was going to be okay.

A few minutes passed like that. Wilson had found the remote to the TV in front of them, and was flipping through channels. Occasionally, he'd direct House's attention to one of the shows, but he couldn't keep his eyes off of the IV. Not until Wilson suddenly coughed, winced, and gagged.

And, always prepared, he reclined back in the chair and reached for the trashcan. He was sure there was something cleaner, probably on the other side of the room, that he could give his best friend, but this was the most convenient thing he could offer at the moment. Wilson accepted it gladly, sitting up and hunching forward as he threw up into the bin - and, though he didn't need to, House reached out to wrap a steady hand around his shoulder, keeping the other one clasped firmly around the edge of the trashcan to hold it steady while his best friend's body convulsed, painful-looking tremors wracking his body as he puked out the cookie and half-eaten chocolate bar he'd just devoured. House waited the storm out, squeezing Wilson's shoulder lightly as the man groaned, and only lowered the trashcan to put it down when he sat back.

"Told you those cookies suck," he commented quietly, and Wilson wheezed out a laugh. House pushed himself up after a moment, heading toward the sink on the other side of the room and grabbing one of the little cups that rested beside the faucet to pour his best friend some water. He also noted - somewhat irritably - that they'd need to put a catheter on him pretty soon too. But, if need be, he'd transfer his friend to and from the bathroom - IV stand and all - until the doctors made that call themselves. He wasn't there to teach them how to do their jobs. He was there to take care of Wilson, even if that meant doing their job for them in the long run.

"Got a long week ahead of us, huh?" Wilson offered weakly as House returned to his side, taking the water gratefully when it was offered to him. "Thanks." He tilted his head back to sip from the cup, and House took it upon himself to grab the remote off of his lap and change the channel again, flipping through it to see if he could find anything his best friend might like. Something to distract him from the nausea he was experiencing right then, knowing that it was just going to get even worse. He eyed the chemo bag from the corner of his eye, and made a face, but he knew it was for the best. That medicine was going to help his best friend get well enough to be able to remove the cancer that was killing him. It wasn't worth it if Wilson was dying, but one week of excruciating pain and nausea _was_ worth it if it meant Wilson wasn't going to die in _three_ weeks. "I think they're showing reruns of The L Word," he said suddenly.

It took a few more minutes of channel surfing to find it, but House was beyond pleased when he did. Wilson just seemed amused, but content once again, reclining back in the bed with a sigh. House, eventually, propped his elbow up on the edge of the bed and rested his chin in his hand, once again flicking his gaze toward Wilson, then the IV, before he looked back up at the TV.

"Hey, it's Helena," Wilson mumbled. "Missed her in the last season. Rachel Shelley is _hot."_

"Bette will always be my girl," House hummed. He studied the TV for a moment, tilting his head to the side as he watched, but eventually let out a whistle. "Rachel has nice breasts, though."

Wilson sighed, but chuckled. "Mmmmhm."


	4. Far Across The Distance

The week went by slow.

Most of it, House spent holding a bin under Wilson's chin for him to throw up into. The first few days were the roughest; his best friend was in more pain than he'd been in recently, and their first night proved to be a challenge. Wilson wasn't sleeping, and House wasn't either - not that he wouldn't have been able to. His best friend was quiet most of the night, aside from raspy breaths and pained, quiet whimpers every so often. House could have easily slept through it if he'd allowed himself to fall asleep - instead, he sat awake and watched his best friend while the tremors started, while Wilson curled in on himself and rolled away from the IV as much as the cord would allow him to, while his sweat-soaked face scrunched up, while tears pricked at his eyes. As it turned out, sleeping wasn't an option anymore once he saw that; the former doctor scooted himself forward and leaned forward against the side of the bed, reaching out cautiously.

Gingerly, he rested his hand over the pillow where Wilson's head was. His hair was drenched in sweat, but House didn't let that deter him. "Shh." Swallowing through the pain that clenched his heart tight, he held the top of his best friend's head with one hand and reached out to adjust the IV cord a little bit so it wasn't wrapped around Wilson's wrist the way it was. "It's okay, Jimmy."

"M'gonna be sick," Wilson whispered, and House didn't doubt it for a second. He grimaced, pulling his hand away from the other man's head, letting his fingers linger for only a second before he leaned back and reached down to grab the bin he kept beside him. He returned his hand to Wilson quickly, though, only to grip his shoulder and help him push himself up sideways to sit up completely; his best friend was shaking so hard, House could feel it just from the light touch, the way his fingers curled gently around Wilson's shoulder to hold him steady while he doubled over and heaved into the bin. House held it up for him, balancing it on his knees.

He rubbed his back, mumbling quiet, useless reassurances that meant absolutely nothing to him, but he knew they meant everything to the man in front of him, and so he continued quietly. "It's okay." He drew his hand back to Wilson's shoulder, offering a gentle squeeze. "I've got you."

When Wilson laid back again, he had shifted, the side of his head cradled in House's open palm. The former doctor kept it still, reluctant to pull away and risk disturbing his best friend. He knew how hard it was for Wilson to get comfortable, and he didn't want to disrupt him now that he seemed somewhat content; and he did, turning his head slightly into House's hand and breathing out shakily. He felt a little feverish, actually, his breath was hotter than House knew it should have been - and yet at the same time, he figured that could have been because Wilson was so close - but his skin was still burning, a faint red flush dusting across his cheeks. House barely saw it in the darkness, the dimly lit room illuminated only by the street lights outside, spilling into the room through blinds that could never seem to block out the light completely.

House put the bin back down and reached his other hand out, feeling Wilson's forehead. Unlike his cheek, the top of his head felt cool; he shifted to press the inside of his wrist to Wilson's head, and his best friend frowned up at him, obviously disturbed by the touching and shifting. "What is it?" The oncologist rasped, as House let his hand drop to the blanket instead, frowning.

"You feel a little feverish," he muttered back. "I'll ask for some-"

"No," Wilson groaned, and the words died on House's tongue just as quickly as Wilson's hand lifted, moving the cord along with him. He grasped blindly for a moment, fingers tugging at the blanket that was tucked around him, underneath his arms - but his hand eventually found House's free one, and while the former doctor jumped a little at the touch, he didn't try to pull away from the contact. "Don't leave. I'm okay," Wilson breathed, wheezing. "Just don't leave." House didn't have the heart to disagree, to pull his hands away. He curled his fingers slightly, shifting his hand against the side of Wilson's face to brush away some of the sweat-soaked hair that had stuck to the side of his head. Wilson leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. "Don't…"

"Shut up," House sighed, though not unkindly. Wilson's hand stayed clasped overtop of his, and House didn't attempt to move it at all. However, he kept the one pinned underneath his best friend's cheek moving slightly, brushing his thumb across the flushed skin with a frown. He really did feel hot, but as worried as he was, he found himself unable to ignore his best friend's pleas. So he simply shushed him, letting his thumb fall still against Wilson's temple, and let out a sigh.

He could feel the tension drain from his best friend after a few minutes. The heat didn't fade, but it didn't get any worse, so House let himself relax for the time being, resolving to get up and get Wilson some medicine if he felt the fever getting any worse. For now, however, he stayed still.

Wilson fell asleep like that, the side of his face cradled in House's hand. Eventually, House simply laid his head down against his own arm, shifting to where he could still see his friend.

He had no intentions of falling asleep. Just watched Wilson's chest rise and fall, shuddering slightly through raspy breaths. But he didn't shift once throughout the middle of the night. He didn't toss and turn, or groan or wince or scrunch his face up in pain. For the first time in a long time, House saw peacefulness written across his face while he slept, an odd sense of bliss that honestly brought more relief to House than he felt like he'd be able to express. For once, Wilson seemed content - and so, for once, the former diagnostician himself managed to relax a little bit. So he didn't dare move. He didn't move either of his hands, not when his arm started cramping from the odd position, not even when his leg started throbbing after a few hours from the way he was sitting. He just squeezed his eyes shut, breathing through clenched teeth through the pain.

He sat there like that for a while, drifting in and out of consciousness every so often until his leg offered a particularly painful throb to snap him awake again. At one point, when he reluctantly peeled his eyes open and lifted his head, his eyes locked with a brighter blue than his own, blue the color of frosted ice. Every muscle in his body pulled taut - and Wilson shifted in response, pressing his face a little further into the former diagnostician's hand - as his gaze bore into those of the woman he was seeing in front of him, the woman he knew for a fact wasn't real at all.

"You spoil him now." Amber's voice was soft, hushed as if so not to wake Wilson up, as if he could hear her. House wasn't sure why that pissed him off so much. "Good. Someone has to."

House shifted uncomfortably for a few seconds, staring down at his best friend's sleeping face as Wilson settled again, relaxing into his touch with a breathy, soft sigh. He wished now even more than ever that he could reach into his pocket and grab a couple Vicodin; between Wilson's discomfort and his hallucinations, he wasn't sure which one he should be picking right then. After all, Wilson would be okay in the long run, but House knew if he went a moment more without his pills, he was going to lose it. He didn't know if seeing Amber was from some kind of withdrawal - and honestly he'd just be disappointed in himself as it was - but with the pain he was already in coupled by her appearance, at that point, he was willing to try anything once. He clenched his teeth and swallowed, feeling the cramp in his leg shift upwards, and breathed in.

Amber approached the bed cautiously, tilting her head downwards to look at Wilson. House held his tongue as she reached out toward him, knowing his best friend couldn't feel the touch; her fingers grazed against Wilson's cheek, brushing the back of her hand down the side of his face. She watched him with just as much love in her eyes as House had seen when she was alive, and something stirred inside the former doctor. Not quite resentment or jealousy, but… inadequacy, maybe, which wasn't an emotion he was all too unfamiliar with. Especially in the presence of Amber and Wilson, together. They had been happy together, though House had, at first, questioned the validity of Amber's declarations of 'love' toward his best friend. But she had proven her adoration for him, and… well, House knew exactly how strongly Wilson could love. He knew exactly how addicting that love was. He knew how it infected you, how it consumed you, how it made nothing else matter, how it became the only thing you couldn't live without. He was surprised to realize Amber could love him, but he'd have been more surprised if she didn't.

"Where are things going to go from here, Greg?" Amber asked just as casually as she would if she were asking about the weather. He looked up to see her perch on the side of the bed beside Wilson, trailing her hand from his cheek to rest it against his shoulder instead. "He's not dying."

House found he didn't quite have an answer. The future hadn't been his biggest concern recently, even less so with the realization that Wilson would live. "Wherever it goes."

Amber flicked her gaze up to him, smiling sweetly. "And you're okay with that?"

"I don't have a reason not to be," House reminded her, but he couldn't keep his expression from hardening, he couldn't bite back the grimace already tugging at his lips. He knew where this conversation was headed, and he didn't care for it one bit. The former doctor ducked his head a little, letting his gaze dart back down to Wilson, who, despite House's quiet mumbling, seemed just as content and lost in his dreams as he'd been just moments before. "Like you said," House continued carefully, daring to shift his hand a little. Wilson moved with the touch, a content smile briefly crossing his face, and the former diagnostician found himself unable to look away for a little while after that - and equally speechless - before he managed to mumble, "he's not dying."

"No," Amber conceded. She tilted her head to the side and looked down at him, icy eyes narrowing for a few seconds. "He's not. You have the funniest way of avoiding questions."

House narrowed his eyes and glanced up at her again. "I'm more than okay with the fact that he's going to _live,"_ he emphasized sharply, barely reminding himself to keep his voice hushed. "Wherever it goes from here, I think I'll be able to handle it." He knew damn well he'd be able to handle things now better than he would have. Wilson not dying meant that _he_ wasn't dying, too. He hadn't intended to live too long after his best friend passed. Long enough to let the grief settle in, to properly mourn him - because Wilson deserved that - but with nothing else to live for, House had resolved that it was time to finally lay back and let the end of his ride come. So, personally, the fact that they had a future to look forward to now at all was enough for him.

"Do you think you can take care of him?"

House paused and flicked his gaze up, searching the hallucination's face briefly. The question was genuine, Amber's intense blue gaze simply imploring as her eyes searched his. A while ago, he might have brushed the question off, maybe even deflected with a joke - because, he would have argued, it wouldn't have mattered regardless. But it did matter this time, didn't it? The former doctor had never been so determined to take care of anybody before, he'd never had much of a reason to, he'd never had the need. But, looking back down at Wilson, he reminded himself that it wasn't really him that needed this. Wilson needed this. He just needed somebody, he needed to not be alone right now - whether he was dying or not - and House had let him spend enough of his time stressing, and worrying, and wondering if he really _cared_ or not. Admittedly, now, all that mattered was being there for him, and making sure he knew it. He smiled to himself, briefly, remembering all the times Wilson had been there for him. Taken care of him, even when he didn't need to, even when he wasn't asked. He was the best friend House could have asked for, except House didn't ask for him, he'd just stumbled across him one day, by chance. He'd just decided that Wilson was the most interesting person in a crowd of dozens.

Interesting enough to follow. To watch. Interesting enough, as it was, to bail the poor man out of jail. Interesting enough to form a bond with Wilson he realized he'd never get anywhere else. A bond he didn't _want_ with anyone else. He'd realized quickly that Wilson was all he needed in life. And he wanted, so badly, to be the only thing Wilson needed - and he'd failed for a while there, but having the chance to possibly make up for that now… he wasn't keeping score with the past anymore. "It doesn't matter," he murmured after a moment. "I'm going to anyway."

Amber chuckled, and House arched an eyebrow, looking up at her. She smirked down at him from her spot at Wilson's side almost triumphantly, blue eyes sparkling, pale face illuminated by the gentle, white light from outside. "You've changed," she told him, lips curling upwards slightly.

House echoed the words that Amber - the _real_ Amber - had said to him so long ago. "I hope so."

"You have to stop," she told him quietly. House didn't open his mouth again after that, keeping it clenched shut firmly as he stared up at her. He knew what she was talking about.

"I know." He breathed through another throb of pain, ducking his head. "... I can't."

Amber sighed, rolling her eyes to the side. She looked down at Wilson again, reached out to run her fingers through his hair. House grimaced, watching her fingers gently untangle the damp brown strands. It took him a moment to remember she wasn't actually there, wasn't actually touching his best friend like that, wasn't actually able to physically interact with him like she was. His chest shuddered briefly as he breathed in again, breath hitching ever so slightly, and he tipped his head back to lift his eyes to the ceiling instead. "I think you can," Amber finally said. "For him, I think you can. You've already started changing." Her gaze flicked toward House again, while the former doctor lowered his chin to stare at her again, eyes narrowing faintly.

"I'm changing some things," he emphasized. "I want to be there for him-"

"That's not enough."

House froze, and Amber's lips tugged upwards briefly. Her blue eyes flickered slightly, roaming across his face, before she turned away again to look back down at Wilson. Lightly, he dug his hand into the blanket below him, feeling Wilson's hand still heavy on top of his own. He didn't move the hand his friend's face was pressed into. "Don't," the former doctor finally growled. "This isn't like with Cuddy. I don't have to be high to deal with this, I'm just in _pain."_

"He's in pain," Amber retorted. Her fingers carded through Wilson's hair again, heaving out a gentle sigh as she looked down at the man she'd loved. "But you've been there for him. Holding him, helping him, reassuring him. You don't think he can offer you the same? That he can be-"

"You don't think he's been there for _me_ enough?" House quipped back, cutting the hallucination off with a scowl. "He's got cancer. He's on chemo. He'll be recovering from surgery in a week. Sorry, but I doubt he's gonna feel like dealing with me on Vicodin withdrawal by that time," he bit out sharply, pausing for a moment to glance down at Wilson. His head shifted against House's hand - and the former doctor noted that he felt a little cooler than before - while he tensed, waiting until Wilson had settled again before finally, reluctantly, allowing himself to relax again. "The last thing he needs is to worry about me right now," House mumbled after a moment. "He's been doing that enough for as long as I've known him. _That_ change has been _long_ overdue."

"You're always going to find an excuse not to quit, Greg," Amber murmured. "You're the only one who can decide when you're ready to stop making excuses. You can't be there for him-"

"I _am_ here for him," House growled.

"-completely," Amber emphasized. "You can't be there for him _completely_."

House curled his lips back slightly, meeting her gaze. She stared back as boldly as the real Amber would have, calm and collected despite the glare he was directing toward her. She had always been like that, always challenging him for one reason or another. One of few people who could fight his logic with… more logic. Who he had somewhat respected just enough to listen to.

"Life is pain, Greg." Amber sighed. House fell silent, letting tired eyes trail back down to Wilson's sleeping form. "You said it yourself. Your leg's going to hurt no matter what you do. Getting high isn't going to make it stop hurting. All the painkillers in the world aren't going to fix the chunks of muscle those surgeons ripped out of your leg. But Wilson needs you right now. _All_ of you. As much as you want to be there for him, you can't. You can't be there for him and let your guard down until you put away the drugs, let yourself feel the pain, get off your ass and start _living_. You're willing to die for him. We both know that." She looked down at him, and as House finally lifted his gaze back up to her, he found himself frozen under her piercing stare. Her icy gaze held his firmly, searching for the answer to the question she was about to ask, and the former doctor braced himself mentally, knowing what was coming. "But are you willing to live for him?"

House knew his answer. Of course he knew his answer. They both did. But he found himself without a response, mouth going dry before he could open it to tell her what she wanted to hear, what he wanted to be able to say. He wanted to live for Wilson, he knew that much was true. And he knew he couldn't be there properly for him if he was on drugs, if he was 'numbing the pain', if he was the same way he'd been for the past several years that they'd known each other. Things were already changing, but was it enough? Was it enough to… to start over?

"I'm not asking you to choose between Vicodin and Wilson," Amber murmured. "He wouldn't even ask that of you. He's just happy to have you by his side, whether you're stoned or not." She huffed out a quiet laugh, and House barely let a smile graze his lips before it faded again. "It's not so much choosing what you want more," she decided after a moment, tilting her head. "And it's not really choosing what you need more, either. I guess in a way, it's…"

"Choosing what he needs," House finished quietly. "He needs me."

"So I guess the question you need to ask yourself is if you can give him what he needs. If you think you can be there for him and deal with your addiction, if you can't be there without it…"

House closed his eyes for a moment, shaking his head at himself as he listened to her. He waited for a while after she finished, struggling to piece his thoughts together again, before sucking in a shaky breath and tilting his head upwards a little without opening his eyes again. "Time and time again," he murmured after a few seconds, struggling to rearrange his thoughts. "He's chosen me." The former doctor finally forced his eyes open, looking up at Amber. "Except with you. The only time he didn't choose me was when he was with you." She tilted her head, holding her gaze as steadily as she had been. House ducked his head, narrowing his eyes. "And after…" He trailed off, unable to finish. "He chose himself. He _tried_ … to choose himself."

"Everyone has a breaking point," Amber noted, nodding. "He never stopped caring about you. You were never going to lose him, and you knew that." She pushed herself up suddenly, leaving Wilson's side, and House watched as she crossed slowly to the other side of the room instead. She sat down in the chair near the door, reaching up to adjust her red scarf, then reached down to smooth her pants down with a hum. "Keep going. I assume there's a point to be made."

"I can live without Vicodin," House murmured after a moment. "I can't live without Wilson."

Amber smiled. She ducked her head, stretching her arms out over her legs, and House shifted slightly where he sat and swallowed through another rush of pain. The cramp in his leg was still spreading, moving from his thigh to his hip - and now it was spreading downwards, to his calf. The room was cool, but he could feel sweat forming on the back of his neck. The fact that he was detoxing after only a few hours was pathetic as it was, and despite his revelation, he knew if he had the chance to, he'd be taking at least four pills right then to make the pain go away. He had no intention of detoxing while Wilson was recovering, and he was definitely going to be taking the pills when he could. But he wasn't moving an inch right then. "Well," Amber sighed. "Then I guess you've got your answer."

House didn't say anything, didn't look back up at her. He lowered his head back to his arms and squeezed his eyes shut, shifting forward to the edge of his seat and heaving out a quiet sigh.

He didn't sleep, but when he opened his eyes again, Amber was gone.

The next morning, Wilson offered him a tired smile as he raised his head from House's hand, and the former doctor dug through his pockets for his Vicodin as he sank back against the chair, using one hand to thumb the lid of the bottle off and rubbing the cramp from his thigh with the other. Wilson watched him dump three pills into his mouth one at a time, swallowing them down eagerly, and he expected to see some concern on his best friend's face when he looked up at him again - instead, another groggy smile met his tired eyes as Wilson pushed himself to sit up.

House offered him a curious look, snapping the cap back onto the bottle and leaning to the side to pocket it. Wilson managed to get himself settled, reaching down and fumbling with the remote to the bed for a moment before he managed to lift it up, pressing the button so he could sit up.

"Hungry?" House asked after a moment.

Wilson hummed as he leaned his head back, a knowing smile on his face. "I could eat."


	5. And Spaces Between Us

"I have to call them," Wilson said one day - the third day of his chemo treatment - while House shook out three Vicodin pills from the bottle he stored in his pocket, counting them out quietly.

"Okay." He tucked the bottle away again and took two of the pills into one hand, pinching the last one between his fingers and presenting it to his friend by extending his arm up into the air and slowly lowering it down, opening his hand up and letting the pill fall into his palm as he held it under Wilson's nose. The oncologist managed to look amused as he reached out to take it, but he didn't put it in his mouth until House had rolled himself over to the sink on the stool he'd acquired - stolen - from another room to fill up a cup of water for him to swallow it down with. Of course, he swallowed his own dry _only_ after he had given Wilson the water so he could take the Vicodin he had given him, knowing full well that he needed it as much as House did, himself. As Wilson swallowed the pill and sipped at the rest of the water, House lightly bounced the two pills around in his hand for a few seconds longer before tipping his head back and tossing them in.

"I mean, they deserve to know, right?" Wilson asked after a moment, once he'd swallowed down the last of the water. He reached out to place it on the table beside the bed, just beyond his reach, and House stretched himself forward and reached across his lap to take it from him. Wilson didn't object, but he looked almost frustrated as he sat back again. House wasn't sure exactly who that frustration was directed at - either himself for being too weak right then to be able to reach the table, or at House for jumping to help before he had the chance to - but he didn't bother with that right then. Just listened, quiet, as Wilson leaned back and continued on, "but then there's always the chance that they might want to come visit. D'you think they'd…?"

"They can't come visit if they don't know where you are," House offered idly, settling his cane between his legs and resting his chin on the handle. Blue eyes studied Wilson's face, taking him in for the hundredth time since the chemo treatments began. He always expected to see something, something he couldn't name, but he never did. There were still bags under his eyes, more defined now that Wilson's skin had gone pale from the effects of the chemotherapy. If House had thought he was constantly sweaty before, it had to be nothing compared to now. But he did notice his chest was no longer heaving, no longer fighting for air with every breath, no longer pausing during his sentences and stuttering and stammering as he tried to breathe and speak at the same time. He was less restless at night, calmed by a touch on the arm, or simply by House laying his hand across his forehead under the guise of 'just checking for a fever'. And his brown eyes were clear, his mind seemingly freed of the haze it had been trapped in recently.

"I don't wanna be rude," Wilson mumbled. He toyed with the cord to his IV for a second, trailing his gaze up it to focus on the bag hanging from the stand beside him, before he turned back to House and leaned his head back against the bed with a sigh. "Or raise any suspicion about…"

"Suspicion?" House chuckled, despite himself. "I'm dead, Wilson. They'd all have to be assholes to voice any suspicion about me being alive, at the risk of reminding a dying - formerly dying, sorry," he corrected at the glance Wilson shot him, "man about his supposedly dead friend. Look." He leaned back, tossing his cane from one hand to the other lightly. "If you want to invite them, fine. I'll stick to the cafeteria or find a lounge or something until they leave. No biggie."

"Might work until one of the staff asks me where my 'husband' went," Wilson commented dryly. "Or if I can pretty, pretty please retrieve him from the nurse's lounge because he's eating all of their food and stealing their TV and sleeping on their couch. Sorry, House, but I don't think that's going to work. And also, I'm not entirely sure you'd be able to stay out of trouble that long."

"No faith," House mumbled.

Wilson chuckled. "No, sorry." He rolled his head to the side, finally seeming to relax. House was well aware how much pain he was in from the chemo, and well aware that the Vicodin was one of the only things he could do to relieve it. Even then, he refused to take it regularly. Only when the pain got _significantly_ bad did he accept House's offer of a pill, and even then he only took one at a time. Still, one at a time was usually able to ease his aching, so House let him get away with it more often than not. He also knew he was going to run out of Vicodin before the week was over if he kept it up, but he didn't mind that too much. He was sure he had some other bottles stashed in the car he could get to if he needed them, and if he didn't… well, he'd deal with it like he dealt with it back at his apartment. He'd rather give Wilson the medicine.

"I'll call them before the surgery," Wilson sighed after a moment. House crossed his arms over the bed, looking up at him. "I've still got four days left to come up with some kind of excuse…"

"So lying to them would ease your guilt, huh?"

Wilson glanced at him, lips tugging upwards briefly. "Everybody lies."

House couldn't bite back a grin on time.

* * *

Of course, Wilson was never that great at waiting things out, and House knew that. He knew he'd sit and replay scenes in his head, go over dialogue, picture what to say and how to say it. He'd drive himself crazy with it if House let him, and he tried to keep him busy most of the time, but it was hard to be by his side the whole time. Especially since Wilson couldn't get up to move himself around, and he was pretty adamant about forcing House out of the room every now and again to get himself food. The nurses tended to bring Wilson his meals, which House often - lightheartedly (or as lighthearted as he could) - joked was 'his job' as his 'loving husband', and Wilson would roll his eyes while he shoved a forkful of food into his eyes, and then when he swallowed, he would sweetly apologize to the flustered nurses because 'he's so caring and overprotective, such a helicopter lover, y'know?' and that shut House up most of the time.

Regardless, he followed Wilson's orders dutifully and went to get food when it was requested of him. On the fourth day of the oncologist's treatment, House came back to the room with a pudding cup and one of those cookies in his hand, to see Wilson lightly turning his phone over and over in his hands; he looked up, meeting House's gaze briefly, and cracked a faint smile.

"I called Stacy," he told him, quieter than usual. House relaxed a little despite himself - the anxious look on Wilson's face had been a bit misleading, if he was being honest - and shook off the rest of his concern as he made his way to his bedside, tossing the cookie onto the bed.

"How is she?" He kept the question casual, sitting down on his stool and making a point of avoiding Wilson's intent gaze as he opened the pudding. There were… some things to be said about his relationship with Stacy. Some things House had told Wilson about, some he hadn't. But there was one thing that would always remain true; he had loved her, truly, once upon a time. Whether or not those feelings were still there, he wasn't entirely sure. The lurch his stomach offered upon hearing her name was still present, something he had long gotten used to, but he figured that could just as easily be instinctual, his body's way of testing his mind. But, as he usually did, he fought through it easily and came out on top, his resolve unwavering.

"She's… okay." Wilson hesitated, if only for a second. Then he dove right in, just as House was scooping out a spoonful of pudding, as he'd lifted it to his mouth. "She's pregnant, House."

House paused and glanced up at him. His surprised expression didn't last, replaced quickly with a look of genuine curiosity. What surprised him the most, however, was the startling lack of resentment or jealousy. There was no lurch this time, his heart didn't stutter or drop, his stomach didn't twist. He remained blissfully blank for a few seconds, not numb, but… indifferent.

He mused over these feelings for a moment, and eventually shrugged. "Good for her."

Wilson didn't stop staring at him for the rest of the day.

* * *

The next day - the fifth day - he returned to the room after a quick bathroom break with two cups of coffee. Wilson was on the phone, so House kept his mouth shut while he walked over, offering one of the coffees to him silently. Wilson took it with a grateful smile, while House seated himself on the edge of the bed and looked up at the TV - which was on mute, but not off. He resigned himself to just watching for a moment, eventually somewhat tuning Wilson out. He couldn't help but glance over whenever he laughed or chuckled, watching the smile on his face grow as he spoke - and as whoever was on the other end of the line spoke to him - but he held his tongue until Wilson had hung up, saying, "yeah, yeah, that's fine. I'll call you later. Bye."

"Whomst," was all House said when Wilson hung up the phone, finally ripping his gaze away from the TV and taking a sip of his coffee. His best friend didn't say anything for a moment, spinning his cup around in his hand. When he did respond, he did so with a heavy sigh, lifting his gaze to House's for only a second before he looked past him to look up at the TV instead.

"Cuddy." He didn't elaborate, didn't tell House how she was, and House didn't ask. Just hummed, turned away, took a sip and mulled over how he still, somehow, felt indifferent.

* * *

House ran out of Vicodin on the sixth day.

He had two pills left in the bottle by then; the sun was just rising, House's leg was cramping, and Wilson was writhing in bed, twisting and turning, and gasping for air as he tried to get comfortable. He was hot, running a fever, but the medicine the doctors had given him wasn't taking. House knew, if he hadn't already thrown up everything he could just a few hours ago, he'd be puking into the garbage bin House was clutching with one hand. The other one was steady on Wilson's shoulder, not quite trying to restrain him, but keeping him steady while he twisted and wriggled, unable to find a comfortable position with the amount of pain he was in. Until, finally, sweaty and groaning and shivering, he collapsed back into the bed and gasped. "Hurts." It was all he said, all he seemed to be able to say, stuttering and stumbling over his words while tears rose to his eyes. House's eyes stung, just listening to him. "I- It hurts."

"I know," House whispered. He brushed a hand over Wilson's head, not bothering to bite back a worried frown as he felt exactly how hot his best friend's skin was. He pressed the back of his hand against Wilson's cheek, knuckles grazing the skin, and the other man's teary, clouded gaze flicked toward him. It wasn't unusual for the chemotherapy to have this kind of effect on Wilson, but it still hurt to see him like this regardless. He couldn't imagine the pain, the headache. But he did know it was going to be worth it in the end, because he was going to _live_. "It's okay. You're okay." Selfishly, a part of him hoped Wilson wouldn't remember this. He'd been so vulnerable lately as it was. "It'll be over soon." He turned his hand, palm against his cheek.

"My head," Wilson breathed. His lower lip started to tremble, and House watched until Wilson clamped his teeth over it to keep it still. He shuddered again, squeezing his eyes shut slightly.

"Wilson…" House closed his eyes for a moment, ignoring the way the word wavered as he spoke, the way his voice trembled and betrayed him, dangerously close to expressing any of the concern he was feeling, the worry, the pain he felt knowing his best friend was hurting so badly. Such human feelings, and nothing anybody should be ashamed of, but to Gregory House, these kinds of feelings might as well have been illegal. He leaned his head back, composing himself.

The meds they were giving him weren't working. After a few seconds of pondering, House decided it would be best to take matters into his own hands - and, so, he did. He slid his hand away from Wilson's cheek and prepared himself to stand up, only to sit back down again, startled, when Wilson's hand shot out to grab his wrist. When he missed that, he ended up grabbing onto House's shirt instead, and the cripple's eyes widened in surprise when he felt Wilson tug him back down again, falling back onto the stool while the other man's wide, glassy eyes darted across his face frantically. "Wh- where are you going-? Don't- don't leave me," Wilson begged, still out of breath, chest heaving as he shivered and groaned, "please, don't…"

"Wilson," House uttered again, quieter, more out of shock this time. "Hey, I'm not leaving."

The way Wilson stared at him was heartbreaking, but there was nothing but trust in those brown eyes of his, even while wide and filled with tears. House didn't - couldn't - move for a while even after Wilson released him, but another pained wince from his friend was enough to make him push himself up again. He limped to the sink without grabbing his cane, reaching down to grip his leg with one hand and fumbling for a cup with the other and filling it up with water. He was quick to return to Wilson's side, though, fishing the Vicodin out of his pocket as he moved and popping the cap off with his thumb, simply letting it clatter to the floor as he sat back down.

"You're taking two," he rumbled without looking at Wilson, feeling the man's big brown eyes fixed on his face. He dumped both pills into his palm and let the empty bottle drop, leaning forward and reaching out to ease one of the pills into his friend's mouth. He didn't give him a chance to protest, even though he could see Wilson's eyes follow the bottle as it clicked against the floor along with the cap. He didn't give him a chance to voice the concern that flickered across his face, pushing one pill past the other man's chapped lips and bringing the water up to his mouth next. Wilson, to his credit, didn't try to object, sipping at the water and swallowing the first pill, which House quickly followed up with the second - and the last - before he could speak. Then he just held the cup with one hand, eventually moving his other one to the back of Wilson's neck to brace his head while he swallowed down the rest of the water. "There you go."

He watched Wilson's chest shudder as he collapsed into the bed, and gently removed his hand from under the other man's head so he could lean forward and put the empty cup on the stand.

"Told you I wasn't leaving," House mumbled after a moment, because it was all he could think of to say, all he knew he _should_ say, so concerned for his best friend but too scared to voice all of the worries plaguing his mind. He ran his tongue over his lips, his mouth suddenly too dry, as Wilson turned his head slightly to look back up at him, pained eyes searching his face wearily.

"You wouldn't," he whispered, and House knew it was the fever talking. He knew it was something, whether it was the fever or the chemo or even the damn Vicodin he'd just taken. But it didn't stop his heart from stuttering, melting, when Wilson reached out again. His hand searched blindly for House's, but the former doctor didn't move to make his search easier. Wilson settled for grabbing his shirt again instead, and when he tugged - albeit weakly - House decided it was only polite to lean forward, crossing his arms over the side of the bed with a frown, while Wilson curled his fingers into his shirt and mumbled, "you wouldn't leave me."

"No," House agreed carefully, lowering his head to peer at Wilson through his lashes. He was almost bemused - he'd seen Wilson vulnerable and scared and near tears (he'd seen him _drowning_ in tears, for God's sake) - and he'd seen him sick, but he didn't think he'd ever seen him like this when he had a fever. He never thought he'd seen him so… he didn't even have a word for it, but he knew it was different. He just wasn't sure exactly how to feel about it yet.

"Because you need me," Wilson continued, and House inclined his head to the side faintly, letting his gaze meet his friend's brown ones steadily. "Because you love me. Don't you?"

_I need you to tell me that you love me._

"Go to sleep, Wilson," House told him. "You'll feel better when you wake up."

A myriad of emotions crossed Wilson's face. Confusion, pain, hurt, heartbreak - and each one hurt more than the last. But it hurt, most of all, when Wilson tore his fingers away from his shirt and rolled onto his back instead, turning away from him and fixing his gaze on the ceiling. Only when he shut his eyes, sighed, and relaxed completely in the bed, did House finally allow his own tension to drain, letting his head fall against his arms and shaking it lightly back and forth. He didn't know what he was going to do with this man, but he needed to figure it out soon. James Wilson was going to be the death of him, and he wasn't sure how he never saw that.

* * *

Day seven.

Wilson's surgery was in an hour, and he was making a few last-minute phone calls. He'd already made the more important ones, but House knew his best friend was too nice to let anybody he'd known back at Princeton Plainsboro go untold. He'd called Cameron - who House could hear exclaiming happy 'congratulations! That's amazing!' through the phone, along with the cries of what sounded like a baby, which almost interested him enough to say something if he hadn't caught the glare Wilson sent him the exact _second_ he dared to open his mouth - then he'd called Chase, and House couldn't resist putting his ear up to the other side of the phone to listen to that particular conversation. He knew Chase had taken over as Head of Diagnostics, and he was beyond curious to know how he was thriving with that, but he didn't get any details and he wasn't going to pester Wilson to ask any questions he wouldn't normally have asked.

He lost interest when Wilson called Foreman, but not enough to leave. He simply began pacing around the room, massaging his leg as he moved and struggling to rid himself of a particularly painful knot. Squeezing his thigh, he sank down onto the foot of the bed and moved both hands to his leg instead, pressing down carefully and easing into the pressure as he did so. Wilson had stopped talking, listening to Foreman say something. He could hear Foreman's voice, but he couldn't quite make out any words - he did, however, notice when Wilson suddenly gasped, sucking in a gust of air and seemingly trapping it as he held his breath, and dropped the phone.

The poor oncologist looked like a deer in headlights when House looked up at him, pupils barely pinpricks as he stared at House, who met his gaze for only a few seconds before looking down at the phone. Before Wilson had the chance to snatch it up again, still struggling to compose himself from whatever had spooked him - and House had a sneaking suspicion he knew _what_ \- the former doctor reached out to take it himself, making sure the call was still in progress before he held it to his ear and massaged his leg again, hitching his hand a little further up his thigh when the cramp started to spread. "Foreman," he greeted cheerfully, and Wilson gasped again. "Sorry, Wilson can't come back to the phone now, you scared him into a heart attack."

"Guess I should've known better than to ask him about you," Foreman mused back without missing a beat, and House couldn't help but smile despite himself. It had been five months since he'd heard the other man's voice, five months since he had heard a familiar voice that wasn't Wilson's - at least, directly, and not just listening to faint rumbles while Wilson spoke to them over the phone. "In my defense, though, I kind of figured you'd have told him that I knew."

"Never saw a reason for it," House admitted. Wilson, at that point, groaned and sank forward to put his head in his hands, shaking slightly, and the former doctor managed to huff out a laugh. "Hang on, I think he's about to throw up. You good, Jimmy?" He turned the phone away from his mouth slightly, pushing himself up and shuffling over to grab the bin beside the bed, which was washed out, freshly cleaned for Wilson to use it for the day. His best friend offered him a half-hearted glare as he took the bin, and House let himself sink back into the stool after a moment while Wilson doubled over to throw up into it. "Anyway, you know what's better than asking Wilson about me? Asking me about me. Which you can totally do if you… hey, easy," he chided, watching Wilson's chest heave as puking steadily turned to coughing. "Dammit, Wilson."

He could practically hear the frown in Foreman's voice, pictured the way his eyebrows would furrow across his forehead and pull down over his eyes when he was worried. "He okay?"

"He'll be fine," House answered distractedly, reaching out and resting a hand flat against Wilson's back. He jerked under the touch, but didn't pull away. "It's kind of funny, actually. Constant coughing can lead to vomiting, but if this guy upchucks hard enough, he starts wheezing," he mused, despite knowing there was nothing funny about the situation.

Wilson groaned, resting his chin on the edge of the bin. "I think I have a fever again."

"I don't have any more pills," House grunted. But he pushed himself up after a moment, reaching out to take the bin away, pretty sure that Wilson had finished for now. "Hang on, I'll see if the nurse will get you some Ibuprofen or something. I swear, if they delay your surgery…" The former doctor sighed to himself, twisting his mouth into a scowl briefly as he turned to leave the room, while Wilson sank back against the bed again with a tired sigh. "Anyway, Foreman, again, whatever you said to Wilson that made him look like he'd seen a ghost or something…"

"Right." Foreman snorted. "I asked him how you took the news."

"Pretty well, all things considered. Don't let him tell you any different, he's delirious right now anyway and he doesn't know what he's talking about. I took it like a pro. He was crying." House paused at the nurse's desk, flashing one of them a bright smile when they looked up at him. "Hey, my husband's not feeling well. I think his fever came back. Can he get some Ibuprofen?"

"Sure thing, hon," the nurse replied cheerfully, typing something into her computer before pushing herself up to head off, and, satisfied, House turned to head back to the room.

"Husband?" Foreman was laughing, only slightly. House couldn't resist the urge to roll his eyes in time, twisting his mouth into an amused smile and briefly considering telling Foreman, very seriously, that he and Wilson were indeed _actually_ married, just for shits and giggles. But, then, he doubted Foreman would believe him. He doubted anyone would believe him if he said something like that, because God knows House had made far too many gay jokes about him and Wilson at that point for anybody to believe that they were true. "Sounds like you two are having fun. How was the honeymoon? Is Wilson as good in bed as all the ladies are saying?"

House snorted out a chuckle despite himself, limping back into the room. He leaned on his cane for a moment, briefly taking the chance to compose himself, as Wilson glanced up at him. "Nah," the former diagnostician finally replied. "He has a hard time getting it up these days. But, alas…"

Wilson looked less than amused. "Anyone who doesn't have a hyper sex drive can't 'get it up' to you," he retorted, and House had to bite back a grin. "Don't blame me because you're horny."

"He just called me horny," House told Foreman. "So you can see how the relationship is going."

"Nothing counseling can't fix."

House scoffed despite himself, glancing at Wilson. "He wants us to go to marriage counseling," he informed him, rolling his eyes. He couldn't help but think back to Cuddy, to the painful months that followed Amber's death in which his best friend wouldn't speak to him anymore, in which he left work, in which he insisted he couldn't be around House anymore because he needed to take care of himself. Those days were so far away now, but not far away enough to keep him from curling his fingers a little tighter around the phone before he could stop himself. Wilson seemed to notice, eyebrows furrowing as he stared - either that or he was thinking back to the same thing, but, House mused, neither of those were particularly favorable scenarios.

"No, just counseling for you," Foreman hummed, and House gasped.

"That's just hurtful. I can't go to marriage counseling by myself. You two just expect me to carry this whole relationship, don't you? First with the sex, and now the counseling. I just can't…"

Wilson laughed - actually, genuinely _laughed_ \- and House fell silent for a few seconds to listen to him, realizing it had been a long time since he'd heard him laugh like that out of genuine amusement and happiness, without the weight of his cancer hanging over his head, without the storm clouds that seemed to follow them everywhere they went, no matter what they did. It brought a smile to his face despite himself, and he turned his head downwards to hide it.

Foreman sighed. "You haven't changed a bit, have you?" And House, remembering his conversation with Amber a few nights ago, he just didn't know how to answer that right then. He ran his tongue over his lips, ducking his head a little more, before limping forward to sit down on the edge of the bed again. Wilson scooted forward a little, so House ended up pulling the phone away to put it on speaker instead, setting it on the bed and reaching down to rub his thigh again.

"How's the hospital?" House asked instead.

Foreman was quick to launch into an explanation - House rolled his eyes, the man sounded about as fond of the hospital as Cuddy always used to now - but he couldn't help but feel some relief despite himself. At least he knew things were being taken care of down there, after all. He'd be lying if he said he wasn't a little homesick, if he didn't want to drive himself back to Jersey just to take a look around and see what they were missing, how much had changed in the time they were gone, but he knew there was no way they could do that, knowing the risk. House would be in jail for years, and Wilson would be alive, yes… but House wouldn't be there. He'd have broken his word. He'd have _left_ , and that was something he didn't want to do to him. "Hospital's fine. Diagnostics is flourishing. Chase's new team is something else, I'll tell you… Park left a while ago. Not too long after your funeral. Adams is still here, but not in Diagnostics." There was a short pause, and Foreman added, "I'm on leave. Chase is in charge right now."

"Goodbye, hospital," House muttered under his breath, and Wilson nudged his shoulder, but he did turn his head away from the phone with a grin on his face as he chuckled. House fell silent for a moment, composing himself again, and clenched his hand around his leg before asking, "what about Taub? Surprised you didn't mention him, on account of him being your boyfriend."

"Taub's been busy with the kids. Haven't seen him at work in a while, actually."

House hummed quietly in response, glancing up when the nurse came in to hand Wilson two cups - one with two Ibuprofen pills and one half-filled with water. House nodded at her, but he didn't take his gaze off of Wilson, watching him carefully as he swallowed the pills down.

"They're getting the OR prepped for your surgery now," the nurse told Wilson as she took the cups back to throw them away. House finally tore his gaze away, picking the phone back up and hitting the speaker button again to turn it off while the nurse went on, "they'll be in for you in about half an hour. You can come up and watch if you want, or you can sit in the waiting room," the nurse added, turning back to House. "We're moving him from the unit after the surgery."

He could feel Wilson's gaze on him, heard the unspoken question in the air as he put the phone back to his ear, and he offered a polite smile at the nurse as he replied, "well, I love to watch."

He ignored her confused look, ignored Wilson's snort, and spoke into the phone. "Gotta go."

"Wait." Foreman stopped him before he could hang up. House paused, bringing the phone back up to his ear and furrowing his eyebrows as he leaned back, as the nurse turned to leave the room, as Wilson leaned back and massaged his forehead and let out a quiet, barely-audible groan that was just loud enough to have House moving for the bin. "What hospital are you at?"

House hesitated at first, of course he did. He lifted the bin to the edge of the bed, mulling his answer over, before eventually lowering the phone again to ask Wilson, "you want him here?"

He trusted Foreman. He wouldn't have left him with the knowledge that he was alive if he didn't. Having the man there wouldn't be too bad, all things considered; he'd considered the guy an ally, maybe even a friend at times, even if Foreman didn't quite consider him to be the same. Either way, he respected the man. He trusted him. And if Wilson was okay with him swinging by, then House couldn't exactly say he objected to it either. His friend nodded, waving the bin away lightly, and the former diagnostician pulled it away to set it back down before lifting the phone back up to his ear to tell Foreman the name of the hospital, nothing else, before hanging up.

* * *

"This changes so much," Wilson said suddenly as the nurse rolled his wheelchair down the hall, with House following suit beside him, white-knuckling his cane. "This changes… everything."

"Death as we know it is over," House joked, swallowing back the bile that rose to the back of his throat. He could very easily go to search his car for Vicodin, but he wasn't about to leave Wilson. Especially now that he was about to go into surgery. His leg hurt, the cramps were getting worse, he was sweating and shaky and he knew he was about to throw up, but he wasn't going to leave Wilson. He was going to stay in the OR, looking down through the glass, he was going to keep his eyes on his best friend while they worked over him, and he was going to watch them remove the tumor that had been stealing the other man's life away, the tumor that was, suddenly, by some miracle, small enough for them to remove, to save his life.

They paused outside the OR, and House looked through the glass, then to the door that led to the stairs that would take him up to the room he'd be observing the surgery from. He didn't care how much pain he was in, he was making that climb. He was going to be there for Wilson.

"See you later?" Wilson offered, a nervous smile tugging at his lips.

House nodded faintly, still staring for a moment. But he turned back when the nurse started to open the door, lifting the cane to stop her and sucking in as much air through his teeth as he could manage. Then he looked down, meeting Wilson's now somewhat confused gaze, searching his sweaty face and wide puppy dog eyes for a few seconds and struggling to form the words he wanted to say. He'd promised himself he wouldn't, he'd promised Wilson he wouldn't, he'd been so adamant in not doing it, in not hurting him like that, not belittling him. But suddenly it didn't feel like that anymore. Suddenly it was something he needed to say - and after the other night, especially, it was something Wilson needed to hear before he went under.

He pushed away the feeling of wrongness, the discomfort that came with the emotions. He could suck up his pride for a few seconds to give Wilson what he'd asked for - because, all things considered, Wilson had more than earned it. He'd done what House had wanted, after all. He'd told him he wasn't going to tell him that unless he fought - and, oh, how he'd fought.

He lowered the cane, sinking his weight against it, and glanced away. "Jimmy."

"H- Greg?" Wilson sounded confused, uncertain, almost scared. Worried, for sure. House clenched his teeth, white-knuckling the cane again, and lifted his right foot slightly with a sigh. He needed to get this over with, he knew. Wilson needed to get that surgery over with now.

He steeled himself, but he didn't look back at Wilson as he spoke, knowing he wouldn't be able to utter the words as long as he was looking the other man in the eyes. "I love you."

Stunned silence was all he received in response. He turned away before he could hear one, before the nurse had even started moving the other man again, opening the other door and beginning the long, painful journey up the stairs. Whether or not he received a response didn't matter, House already knew Wilson loved him, he already knew how much his best friend cared about him. He knew that, despite the failed marriages and relationships, those three words still meant something to Wilson, even though he still couldn't quite fathom why. And he realized, as he reached the top of the stairs, maybe they meant more to him than he was willing to admit. Maybe that was why it was so hard to spit them out when it came to Wilson.

The former doctor leaned against the wall, catching his breath and rubbing his leg as he looked down through the glass. His eyes locked with Wilson's as they secured the mask over his face, and he couldn't keep his lips from twitching upwards, seeing the corners of his eyes crinkle, the smile sparkling in his eyes that was, unfortunately, hidden from him behind the mask now. It reminded him of the last time he'd seen Wilson like that. When he'd asked him to be there, and House had said no, but he'd come anyway, because… because, honestly, how could he not? Truthfully, he'd been surprised that there was ever a question in the fact that he'd be there at all.

_If you die, I'm alone._

He leaned his head against the wall, watched as Wilson's eyes slid shut.

"Not yet," he murmured to the empty room.

_Not now._


	6. You Have Come To Show You Go On

The surgery went smoothly.

It wasn't long - and yet, long enough - before House was seated at Wilson's bedside in the new room they'd situated them in. House liked this one a little more, because the sink was within stool-rolling range and the TV was even a little bigger, and closer for them to see easier. He figured Wilson would appreciate that, too, considering his best friend was going to have some blurry vision while he recovered from the anesthesia. The oncologist was still unconscious, but he didn't seem to be completely unaware, either. Every so often, his fingers would twitch, and he'd wince, and he'd groan out a quiet rumble of something that sounded close to House's name; during these moments, House would reluctantly stroke the other man's head, simultaneously hoping he would wake up and hoping he wouldn't at the same time, not wanting his own vulnerability to be the first thing Wilson woke up to after his surgery. Still, he took it upon himself to soothe his injured friend regardless, mumbling half-hearted reassurances and brushing his hair back whenever Wilson managed to knock it back into his own face again.

Sighing, he let his other hand drift down to his leg, rubbing his thigh lightly in a half-hearted attempt to massage away the pain spiking up again. A part of him figured now was as good a chance as any to go and get his Vicodin. If Wilson woke up without him, then so be it, he would just be making a quick trek to the car and back again. But, at the same time, he didn't want to. The thought of leaving his best friend right then as it was just made his stomach twist, an emotion he still couldn't quite place - but it was enough, even with the pain, to keep him rooted to his seat for the time being. It didn't stop him from grumbling, of course, from scowling as he used his pinkie finger to brush Wilson's bangs out of his face again, as he mumbled, "it's okay." While Wilson stirred once more, but didn't wake, relaxing back into the bed with a heavy sigh.

He did mumble, though, quiet and hoarse, "House?" And the former diagnostician allowed himself to soften - just a bit, just for a second - as he stared down at his friend's sleeping face. Brushing his hand across Wilson's forehead, and feeling satisfied that he felt cool, the man leaned forward a little and lifted his hand from his leg to cross it over the bed instead, sighing.

"I'm here, Wilson." He let his free hand find Wilson's wrist, using checking his pulse as an excuse for the contact, but he let his hand linger even so. "Don't force it. Just rest," he reminded him gruffly as Wilson's eyelids fluttered, a half-hearted attempt to force his eyes open.

Wilson let out a quiet hum, something akin to assent. His head turned toward House, and the man let his knuckles curl against the oncologist's cheek for a moment, lowering his head and watching the other man through his lashes. It wasn't long before Wilson had settled again, his discomfort steadily evaporating, and he heard the beeping from the monitor steady out as well; he was content right then, more so than he had been the past few nights, and House allowed the rest of his tension to drain along with Wilson's. It was just another reminder that it was over. The pain, dread, fear, depression - it was over. Wilson was alive, and alive he would stay.

He sighed to himself again and let his hand fall to the other man's shoulder instead, curling his fingers into his shirt lightly and lowering his chin to settle it in the crook of his other elbow.

"This does change everything," he mumbled after a few moments. Briefly, he squeezed his eyes shut until flashes or reds and greens danced across his vision, until the inside of his skull started aching from the pressure he applied. It was a nice distraction from the pain in his leg, anyways. Baring his teeth against his skin, and resisting the urge to bite down _solely_ because he knew he would have to explain it to Wilson when he woke up, the former diagnostician forced his eyes open again and blinked furiously, fighting the leftover blurriness left in his vision and the pain-filled haze that continued to cloud his mind. "You're right. You were always right. Change isn't always bad." He blinked again, clearing his vision, and peered up at Wilson once more. His sleeping friend didn't wake up, but he turned his head, pressing his face closer into his hand. Reluctantly, the former diagnostician let his fingers uncurl to let his palm lay flat against his face. "You'd handle this better than I did," he sighed. "If the roles were reversed. I know you would."

Still no response. Wilson huffed quietly through his nose and settled again, and House allowed his eyebrows to pull downwards across his crinkled forehead briefly, furrowing them together.

"I don't deserve you."

 _Shit. Why did I say that?_ Why _did_ he say that? He swallowed back every urge to pull his hand back, studying Wilson's face intently for any indication that the man might have been awake. But he was still sleeping, as peacefully as ever, more so than he'd been in months - even the past few nights, as content as he'd seemed sometimes, didn't light a candle to him now. Now his burden was gone, he was cancer-free and able to rest easy for the first time in a long time.

House didn't quite relax, but it was easy to see that his best friend was still asleep. So he studied Wilson for a moment longer, then spoke. "I don't deserve you," he repeated carefully. "Never have. Maybe never will. I don't know how you've put up with me for this long, you know."

He didn't know why he was saying these things, but it felt… oddly relieving. It wasn't coming from a hallucination. He wasn't forcing himself to say it to Wilson while he was conscious. He was acknowledging these things, things he already knew but had never been able to say to himself or anyone else aloud. It felt better coming from him than it would have from Amber. Biting the inside of his cheek, he shifted his fingers against Wilson's face a little bit, watching his fingertips flutter and feeling Wilson press his face a little closer to House's palm in response.

"You deserve better," House sighed, tilting his head a little so he could speak a little clearer, a little louder, to his sleeping friend. "I'm not… I'm not a very good friend, Wilson. I know that. I'm not even… a good person." His voice wavered briefly, not with guilt or sadness, but frustration. Not that he didn't feel guilty or remorseful, but he felt more frustrated with himself above all else. "You deserve someone better than me, especially now. Especially when you were dying," he added, somewhat bitterly. "You deserve someone who can… damn, I don't know, comfort you. Talk to you. Someone who doesn't have to wait until you're asleep to do this-" He brushed his thumb across Wilson's cheek pointedly, and tensed a little when the other man shifted. He ended up lowering his voice, but went on, "someone who can look you in the _eyes_ and say…"

He let the words fade into a quiet rumble instead, quiet and soft almost like a growl, before silence fell across the room again. Narrowed blue eyes peered at Wilson, hardly daring to raise his head to get a glimpse of him that wasn't shadowed by his eyelashes. "You deserve better. I'm not the friend you need me to be…" He grunted, almost hurt by his own words, and couldn't help but chuckle at his own patheticness. He ran his tongue over his lips and sucked in air through his teeth, a spasm of pain in his right thigh briefly catching him off guard.

It was enough for him to snatch his hand back from Wilson's face and sit back on the stool, clasping it over his thigh instead, and while his best friend shifted restlessly at the loss of contact for a second, he settled again quickly enough. House, on the other hand, it took him a little while to compose himself again, trying without success to massage the pain away and only getting angrier when his attempts didn't work. "You deserve someone who's not in constant pain," he hissed, the venom in his tone directed solely toward himself. Wilson's eyebrows furrowed, still asleep, and House barked out a quiet laugh. He let his head fall forward for a second, glaring down at him, though there was no anger in his gaze - not for Wilson, at least.

"Even when you're asleep, you worry about me…" He shook his head, disgusted, and glanced away again. He didn't know whether to blame this on the detox, but it didn't matter anyway. These were things Wilson would never hear when he was awake, and House could just as easily forget about this moment himself, lock it away and store it back in his mind and never think about it again. The former doctor clenched his teeth and swallowed, gripping his thigh until his knuckles turned white, until the pressure he was applying only started adding to the pain. Somehow, that was a little better, even though it hurt worse. At least he was controlling _that._ Lately, he didn't feel in control of anything. Maybe that was why it was so easy for him to slip.

"But I'm not going anywhere," he finally managed to whisper, swallowing through another spasm and letting his head fall back. He loosened his grip slightly, slowly, one finger after the other, until he could start rubbing again, desperate. "Not unless you want me to. _Really_ want me to. And God only knows why, but…" He sighed through clenched teeth. "You don't right now, huh?"

He pressed the heel of his hand into the scar, the hole in his thigh where muscle used to be. At that point, even now, he'd have said 'fuck it' and gone to get the Vicodin, if his leg would let him. But he knew there was no chance of walking right then, so he sat still, and waited for it to pass. He wished he could say it was just the detox doing this to him, the lack of pain pills making it worse. But, the truth was, his leg hurt all the time. With Vicodin, without Vicodin. And sometimes, like right now, that pain got worse, and worse. On good days, he'd be lucky to be able to sit up and hop around his apartment on one foot to take care of himself. On bad days, he couldn't move. He couldn't speak. He couldn't think. He'd lay in bed, in pain, and hold his leg. Those were the days he didn't come into work. The days he wouldn't answer the phone. Then when it was over, after a few days, he'd make up a crazy excuse and go about his business.

Today _would_ be considered a 'good' day. The pain didn't have him on the floor in a fetal position. But his mind was cloudy with pain, so he'd say right then he was stuck smack dab in the middle.

The pain didn't ease, and, finally, House just couldn't take it anymore. He couldn't go fast, but if Wilson had managed to stay asleep through his ranting, then he figured his best friend would last for a little while so he could go retrieve some damn pills. If nothing else, it'd help with the detox, which was bothering him about as much as his leg was. Shuddering through another spasm, the cripple leaned back and moved to grab his cane, positioning it against the floor carefully before pushing himself to his feet. He tested his right one against the ground hesitantly, letting himself ease his weight onto it slowly to get used to the way the muscle would clench and ripple with pain, and once he was satisfied he wasn't going to fall over when he started walking, he cast another sidelong glance toward his sleeping friend before limping toward the door.

He hated himself for leaving, but he knew he had to. He couldn't let Wilson wake up to him in pain like that - it was better that he woke up alone than having to deal with House's shit later. Besides, it wasn't like he was just abandoning him in the hospital. He'd be back, obviously. He didn't go through all of this, staying with Wilson, preparing for him to die, sitting with him through chemo, staying up with him, comforting him at night, watching his surgery, just to leave him. Wilson was still all he had in life, and the man not dying anymore didn't change that. If anything, it was just more of a reason for House to want to stick around in the first place.

His rationalizations didn't quite help the guilt stirring in his chest, but he did his best to ignore it. Just like he tried to ignore the pain in his leg, white-knuckling his cane as he headed to the elevator. He shouldered his way inside, past a few people leaving, and slumped sideways against the wall once he managed to get inside. The handrail dug into his side, but it wasn't too unpleasant. The pressure was welcome, because it briefly took away from the pain in his leg.

He watched the buttons as the elevator lowered to the first floor, taking a hesitant half-step forward. It took him a moment to right himself again enough to leave the elevator, limping out and pressing himself a little closer to his cane, until he could feel it pressed against his side. It was like a security blanket of sorts, bringing a sense of comfort as he headed down the hall. Once again, he felt a pang of regret and guilt for leaving - but he resolved to bring a few candy bars back for his best friend when he returned, maybe a coffee if he could carry it. He'd do whatever he could without giving off the impression that he was trying to spoil the other man. He imagined Wilson would try to assure him there was nothing to feel bad about if he told him why he was showering him with candy and coffee, so House also resolved to just keep his mouth shut. That had been easy for him the past few weeks, he didn't see why it needed to change.

"House!" A voice called up ahead, one that brought the former doctor to a halt. For a second, he could've sworn his heart stopped beating - Wilson was the only one who ever actually called him 'House' now - but once the voice registered, the amount of relief he felt was… crippling.

He looked up to see Foreman approaching, the doors swinging shut behind him as he entered the hospital and made a direct beeline for him. Something inside of the man twisted sharply upon seeing the other, unable to keep his eyes from widening just a fraction as he took him in. He looked nearly the same, but his mustache and stubble were a little thicker than before.

Five months. Five months since he'd seen the man, since he'd seen another familiar face besides Wilson's. Suddenly, House's old life was staring him right in the face - and so was the sudden reminder that he even had an 'old life' to be staring at him to begin with. It had never fully hit him how much he'd been leaving behind; it had never mattered to him, and in a way, it still didn't. He'd still make the same choice, again and again. But he couldn't help but marvel over it for a second, the sudden nostalgia that rushed through him, like a switch was flipped. Maybe a little bit of longing, and some wistfulness. Those feelings actually surprised him.

"Foreman," he greeted as the other man reached him, and he had to forcibly curl the corners of his mouth downwards without touching his face to keep the smile at bay as he said his name.

Foreman didn't share that sentiment. He grinned, teeth and all as he stepped forward, and House honestly thought for a second that the man was going to hug him. He kept his hands to himself, though, thankfully. Much as he _might_ have missed the guy, even if it was just a little, he wasn't going to entertain the idea of any physical affection. They'd never been like that, anyway. "It's good to see you," Foreman told him, glancing the former doctor over carefully. House wasn't sure what to think when he saw the other man's eyebrows furrow, when he saw his head tilt just a fraction; an odd look entered his gaze, something House couldn't quite place, but he didn't have the chance to question him via sarcastic comment (something along the lines of 'take a picture, it'll last longer', maybe?) before Foreman had recovered again. "How have you been?"

"Small talk isn't your forte, Foreman." House quirked an eyebrow at him lazily. That odd look returned, as Foreman's gaze held his, so the former doctor quipped, "something on my face?"

Foreman's response was instant, smooth and calm and collected in that way that had never failed at making House want to kick his ass into next week with his cane. Now was definitely no exception; some things never changed. "Aside from the bags under your eyes, you mean?"

House couldn't bite back an irritated grimace in time. The thing he hated most was how easily the comment had rendered him silent, caught him off guard. He was really off his game right then, and he was going to blame it on the pain - despite the fact that the cramps in his leg had let up significantly, the pain easing up just a bit since he and Foreman had started talking. He ran his tongue over his lips, drawing a blank on witty retorts for the time being, and bit his tongue to keep back a grunt. Instead of replying, he simply swept his gaze away to look around, and tried to pretend he didn't see the flicker of surprise that flashed across Foreman's face.

"Hey, you okay?" All jokes were cast aside now; House wanted to hit him then more than ever, but he refrained. Other than a biting glance in Foreman's direction, he didn't respond, and watched his brow crease slightly in response as his expression grew more troubled, concerned. It was kind of funny, watching Foreman display any kind of worry. Funny, because he didn't know whether to believe it was genuine or not. He couldn't tell with him. "It's not Wilson, is it?"

"What?" House jerked his chin up faintly, drawing his head back. "No. Wilson's fine. Resting."

"Then what…" Brief frustration sparked in Foreman's gaze, holding the former diagnostician's carefully, and House realized a little too late exactly what the other man was doing. He narrowed his eyes, pulling his eyebrows down a little, and lowered his head to peer at him through his lashes instead. The other man was _analyzing him_. He'd forgotten Foreman did that. He'd forgotten how _like_ him Foreman was. Spending time with _just_ Wilson seemed to have marred his skill at schooling his expression into a well-settled pokerface. As smart as the oncologist could be, he was also painfully oblivious; House didn't have to hide much physically when it came to him, but he had a feeling that was going to be changing pretty quickly now with Foreman in the picture. He caught himself before he could grimace again, glancing away.

"Speaking of Wilson…" House paused, briefly, to make sure there were no nurses around. He had trouble almost slipping up around them a few times, but he tried to call Wilson 'Jimmy' whenever they were around. Kind of a force of habit at that point, not to raise suspicion - I mean, they're married, right? Why would House call his spouse by his own last name? The same went for Wilson, who made a point of calling him 'Greg' whenever the opportunity arose just so he could watch House squirm. The former doctor rolled his eyes despite himself, but he forced himself to focus quickly enough. "He's sleeping right now, but." He flicked his gaze back toward the elevator, looking over his shoulder, and frowned; the expression was masked by the time he turned back to Foreman. "Just got out of surgery, he's understandably exhausted. You know, from the horrible strain of being unconscious on a table for a few hours," he added dryly. Damn, he sounded like an asshole. Wilson deserved to rest now more than ever.

Foreman rolled his eyes, then went right back to studying him, much to House's chagrin. He pressed himself a little closer to his cane, somewhat unconsciously. "Where were you headed?"

"Obviously I was going outside." House glanced past him briefly, suddenly reminded of the Vicodin and the pain in his leg. On cue, another spasm of pain flushed through him - and House briefly tightened his grip on the cane as it did - but it settled again quicker than usual. Maybe he'd be okay as long as Foreman was there to distract him. He'd torture the guy a little just to boost his mood, maybe. At the very least, it would keep his mind off of the pain _and_ the detox.

He licked his lips and forced himself to look away again. "Well, as long as you're here, you might as well help me carry stuff," he grunted. This made the coffee thing a little bit easier. Foreman raised his eyebrows, but House limped away from him before the man could reply. "Jimmy's gonna want coffee when he wakes up, and carrying stuff is a little difficult."

"Right. Obviously," Foreman retorted, sarcasm dripping from every word. "I can see why it'd be difficult to carry. Probably gets really heavy underneath the weight of your laziness." At this, House couldn't help but huff out a laugh, the sound quick and breathless as if it were startled from him. In the next instant, he had silenced himself, but not before throwing a warning glare toward Foreman to let the man know that he wasn't going to be pleased if this moment was ever brought up again. The other man simply smirked, but House was pretty satisfied that Foreman didn't want a leg to match his own, so he fell silent and pushed his way into the cafeteria.

He went straight for the coffee bar, grabbing a cup and setting to work making Wilson's coffee the way he liked it without another word. Foreman paused nearby, leaning against the counter, and watched him; House struggled with his own irritation for a moment, wanting to snap but knowing that he shouldn't, knowing that it wasn't going to do any good, knowing it would only cause a scene and make Foreman even more suspicious than he was. He just stayed silent, clicking the top into place and passing it over to the other man, before taking a swift look around the cafeteria again. He looked past the other people, patients and visitors alike, toward the vending machine - then back toward the register, where they had the cookies. Right. Chocolate first, then cookie. He pushed himself away from the counter, heading for the vending machine.

"What are you doing?" Foreman followed him, and House sighed as he steered his way past someone in a wheelchair. Is this what the remainder of Foreman's visit would be like?

"Getting Wilson a snack." He fumbled for his wallet, pulling the money out as he reached the machine. He settled on getting two chocolate bars, then led Foreman over to the register to get one of the raisin cookies and pay for all the stuff. He almost considered making Foreman pay, but he brushed the thought off quickly enough. It didn't really matter, he had the money anyway. As much as he wanted to torment the other guy, he was… surprisingly not in the mood.

He did, however, dump the bag in Foreman's hands after he paid. "He should like all that."

Foreman arched an eyebrow at him, looping the bag around his wrist. "Nothing for yourself?" He sounded almost skeptical, as if he didn't quite believe House was buying this all just for Wilson. House, however, offered a brief pause to flick his gaze around the room, and frowned slightly. Damn, Wilson was going to chew him out for not eating. But… no, he could deal with that. He'd rather get back to the room now, praying Wilson hadn't woken up yet and was still peacefully sleeping without the knowledge that House had left the room. He didn't know whether he'd be loopy when he woke up or not, and he didn't want to risk the possibility of an emotional breakdown or something. That alone was enough to kick him into action, limping toward the door without responding, and Foreman, once again, trailed after him. "Right, just ignore me…"

"Your question isn't relevant," House grunted in response, reaching the elevator. He pressed the button with his cane, waiting for the doors to open and heading inside. Foreman shuffled after him, pausing as House turned and sank his weight against the wall, hitting the button to the floor Wilson's room was on. It only just occurred to him that Foreman might need a visitor pass, but by the time he realized it, the elevator was already well on its way to moving upwards, so he let it drop after a moment. If Foreman got in trouble, well, that was on him - he could've said something, but he was more worried about psycho-analyzing House for whatever reason.

He shifted, lifting his foot a little to keep his weight off of his leg. He didn't know if Foreman was watching, nor did he care - he wasn't going to keep himself from gaining a little physical relief just because Foreman was having trouble keeping his eyes to himself. At that point, House was happy to just let him watch and otherwise ignore him. It didn't really matter anymore right then.

Thankfully, he had the sense to keep his mouth shut as they reached their floor and House led him out to where Wilson's room was. He peered inside cautiously before entering, relieved to see his best friend was still sleeping, but the relief faded quickly when he saw the other man was shifting restlessly, squirming slightly under his blanket. His eyebrows were pinched together, so close they were almost touching - his vitals looked fine, he just seemed uncomfortable. House strode over at once, as quickly as he could on his leg, abandoning Foreman in the doorway for the time being and reaching down to rest his hand gently across Wilson's sweaty forehead. No fever. "Wilson," the former doctor muttered, pushing his hand up a little to slick Wilson's hair back. He shifted under the touch, and at the sound of House's voice, turning his head closer and mumbling something unintelligible. "Shh. Relax. Rest. It's okay."

Wilson offered a breathy exhale in response. His eyelids fluttered, and House withdrew his hand briefly; when it became clear that he wasn't waking up yet, however, he returned to his position when the other man let out a quiet groan of protest, resting his hand over Wilson's head again. He hated himself more than ever right then, and, for a moment, even hated Wilson for making him display this much gentleness when Foreman was standing _right there_ \- but when his best friend's expression softened, relaxing into his touch, that sentiment dissolved rather quickly. He found it hard to stay mad at him when he _wasn't_ asleep and needy and clingy and desperate for any contact he could get, but when he was this vulnerable, it was practically impossible.

"How long's he been unconscious?" Foreman asked suddenly, walking forward. He didn't say anything, didn't comment on House's hand on Wilson's head, didn't mock him, didn't even smirk. House glanced up at him, only briefly, before returning his gaze back to his best friend.

"Since they put him under. Few hours."

Foreman frowned, setting the stuff on the table. "He should've woken up by now."

"Sure, if he'd actually been sleeping well recently," House grunted. "He's exhausted from the chemo treatments and staying up half the night puking. If he's lucky, he gets about four or five hours of restless sleeping and nightmares and _maybe_ a half-hour nap in the middle of the day." He scowled for a moment, knowing there was nobody to blame for his best friend's condition, but trying to find someone to be angry at anyway, but he gave up after a moment. He didn't need someone in particular, but he was still angry either way. "This is the first real break he's gotten in months." He had to force himself not to soften, keeping his expression cold as he stared down at Wilson, and he found it oddly, surprisingly, frustratingly difficult to do so.

Foreman watched him for a moment, but he was mostly silent, turning away to pull up a chair on the other side of the bed. House took the chance, while he was turned away, to slide his hand down across Wilson's head and rest his palm against his cheek instead. Wilson had shifted to press his face closer into his hand by the time Foreman turned back to them and sat down, and House shushed his best friend as the man suddenly shifted again, his face scrunching up briefly in a half-pained expression before relaxing again with a quiet groan. "Shh. I know. You're okay."

"Don' leave," Wilson slurred, his voice barely a whisper. House pinched his eyebrows together silently, shifting to sit down on the stool and keeping his hand where it was as he did. "Don'..."

"Not leaving, Wilson." House sighed. "I'm right here. See?" He curled his fingers, stroking Wilson's cheek with his knuckles, and forced himself not to glare at Foreman as he did so - because that would require looking at him, and House didn't want to know what the hell kind of expression the man was wearing right then. Wilson seemed satisfied, however, turning his face closer and letting a briefly satisfied smile cross his face, and House bit back a grimace. God, he hated himself so much right then, more than he'd ever be able to express. "Yeah, just… relax. Idiot," he threw that in for his own benefit, trying to at least save _some_ face, regain some _dignity._

"I was wrong," Foreman spoke after a few minutes, and House flicked his gaze up, more intrigued than anything. Foreman? Admitting he was wrong? Blasphemy, he was hooked. At least until the other man continued, with a small smirk this time. "You _have_ changed, House."

"Shut up," House snapped back before he could stop himself, before he could reign in the impulsive flash of irritation that his Vicodin was usually able to smother. "No, I haven't."

He thought the other man might continue, might tease him, but instead he merely looked confused, cocking his head to the side and staring at House with a somewhat baffled look. It was a while before he spoke again, and House practically relished the silence, looking back down at Wilson and refusing to look up even when Foreman spoke. "Are you… are you sober?" A few more minutes passed like that, after that, in total silence, before House just shrugged. Yeah, he was sober. Painfully, annoyingly sober. Which is why he needed to keep his mouth shut for the time being, and try his best to stifle the frustration gnawing at him right then. It was so easy to control around Wilson, and he hated how much the presence of his former Duckling had caught him off guard. The man grimaced, biting the inside of his cheek. "How long have-"

"I'm not off the Vicodin, Foreman." House paused, sucking in as much air through his teeth as he could and trying to force himself to relax again, despite the irritation pulsing through him. "Just don't have any with me right now, and I haven't exactly been keen on leaving Wilson here-" Pointedly, he tilted his head toward Wilson, the man's head still cradled in his palm.

Foreman arched an eyebrow at him. "That's never stopped you before."

"Well, Wilson wasn't dying before," House retorted, flicking his gaze up to Foreman's face once more. The other man's expression flickered, realization darkening his features. " _What?"_ He found himself unable to resist snapping again, clenching his free hand over the edge of the bed.

After a moment, though, Foreman just shook his head slowly. He looked away then, drumming his fingers against his leg, the realization fading into curiosity, contemplation. "Nothing." House stared for a moment, but he lowered his gaze back to Wilson soon enough. Normally he'd have pressed - but, one, he wasn't in the mood… and, two, he wasn't sure he really wanted to know.


	7. Near, Far, Wherever You Are

Two hours passed before Wilson woke up. Aside from occasionally stirring and shifting every now and again, he was placid, peaceful as long as House kept his hand on his face. He kept Foreman at bay by finding the remote to the TV and passing it over to the other man to pick - which did briefly seem to surprise him - but Foreman seemed to decide not to look the gift horse in the mouth that time and had distracted himself by flipping through channels, and so House had relaxed again, reclining back in the stool and carding his fingers through Wilson's hair every now and again when he became particularly fussy or disturbed. He settled quickly as long as House either kept moving or kept his hand where he could feel it, and he alternated between both options to keep his arm from getting too stiff - at least, that was his excuse and he was going to stick to it regardless. Foreman kept his mouth shut anyway, so everything was fine.

When Wilson _did_ wake up, House was too focused on the television at that particular moment to be able to tear his hand away before the other man actually came to - so, naturally, the cripple nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard Wilson speak up from the bed, his voice very quiet, very strained, and very _teasing_. "Mornin', House," the oncologist slurred; his eyes were shut when House recovered enough to look back down at him, and when the former diagnostician immediately moved to pull his hand away, Wilson feebly reached up to grab onto his wrist. "Oh, don't stop now for my benefit…" A faint smirk tugged at the younger man's lips. "You're warm."

House made a face despite himself, but there was nothing hostile or negative about the expression. If anything, he was somewhat amused, but he didn't play along just yet. "You're cold," he retorted, less of a jab and more so stating facts - because, he realized, as Wilson dragged his hand back to his head, he _was_ cold. It was actually kind of comforting; he was so used to his best friend's skin practically being made of lava at that point, so realizing that his fever had broken was enough to relax him for a little while. He stared down at Wilson for a moment, decidedly ignoring Foreman even as the other man sat up a little in his chair. The oncologist still hadn't opened his eyes, and that somewhat concerned the former doctor, but he quickly brushed the concerns aside. Wilson was likely still just tired, and probably a little loopy. "They got the tumor," he informed after a moment, watching the small smile on Wilson's face widen just a fraction as he listened. "Congratulations, Jimmy. You're officially cancer free."

It was hard to keep his tone from softening a little as he spoke, and even harder to keep a smile off of his face when Wilson's lips tugged into a huge, dimpled grin. It lasted only a few seconds before it melted back into a smaller, softer smile, but it was still enough to make House's lips twitch just a little, himself, fighting an instinctive grin in response. He chose that moment, however, to quickly redirect both of their attention, because he knew this was going to be the death of him if he didn't, and he could feel Foreman's gaze boring into his forehead anyway. "And guess what else?" House paused, glancing up at his former fellow. "Foreman's here."

"Foreman?" Wilson murmured, finally blinking his eyes open. House locked his gaze with Wilson's, not looking away even as the other man's caramel eyes shifted in Foreman's direction.

The Dean cracked a smile at him, leaning forward. "Hey, Wilson."

House leaned back after a moment, content to just lapse into his usual silence and let them talk. He'd been talking more than usual recently, high on the adrenaline and excitement that Wilson's remission had brought the both of them. And that high hadn't completely faded, but had fizzled out to a more or less tolerable degree. Talking so much felt unnatural to him in the strangest of ways; it wasn't as if he'd completely gone silent while Wilson had been sick, but at the very least, most of his conversations with the man had resulted in one to two sentence replies at most, and Wilson was usually too exhausted and weak to carry on a conversation regardless. House just found it easier to follow along with that, to bend to suit Wilson's moods whenever necessary. Now, however, he could sit back while Foreman kept his best friend talking instead, and so he rooted his gaze to the television and tried to appear interested in what was playing, while simultaneously trying to block out their conversation and the TV altogether.

They carried on, as they did, and House eventually shifted his focus to his leg. It hurt… god, it hurt. Foreman's arrival had been a pleasant distraction, but that was steadily wearing off again. And now with Wilson awake, House didn't want to leave. He did notice, however, that it wasn't any worse than it would be if he was taking Vicodin; he wasn't even sweating anymore, and the slight tremor in his hands had calmed down significantly. Hopefully the worst of the detox was over, and he could bear through the pain as long as he had to. It hadn't even been that bad…

"Hey-" Wilson's hand squeezed his wrist, still wrapped in the man's gentle fingers. House couldn't bring himself to pull away yet, even when his attention was drawn back to the contact. So he decided not to mention it, glancing over dutifully as Wilson asked, "did you eat anything?"

He stared blankly for a few seconds, pushing his eyebrows as high as he could get them. But, after a moment, he sighed. Once again, he was unable to lie to Wilson, and once again, he found himself unwilling to do so regardless. "No. I'll get something," he promised quickly, before Wilson could open his mouth to object. His best friend glared at him, looking rather indignant - hell, he almost looked personally offended by the fact House hadn't eaten yet, and the man couldn't help but allow a small smirk to cross his features for a second. Wilson cared about him and he knew that damn well, but he wouldn't be House if he didn't poke fun at him for it either. "I'm not going to starve to death, Wilson. You should know, you've been stuffing me with…"

"Food you won't eat on your own," Wilson grunted. He pursed his lips in a frown that was almost a pout, and House couldn't bite back his smile in time. "Someone has to take care of you."

The smile wavered a little at those words, but Wilson, who had looked up toward the television at that second, thankfully didn't have a chance to see it. Wilson shouldn't be taking care of him; it was supposed to be the other way around. Hearing him say those words, before, would have brought some amusement. Now it just brought a cold, dead weight to the bottom of his stomach. "I can take care of myself," he retorted, albeit not quite defensively, and finally slipped his hand from Wilson's grasp just long enough to reach over him to the table with the snacks and coffee.

Foreman offered him an odd look, but he didn't say anything yet.

Wilson shot the other man an exasperated look as House settled again, heaving out a rather over-dramatic sigh and leaning his head back sharply. "This is what I'm dealing with, you see?" But he grinned at House after a moment, all teeth and dimples, and _dammit_ , he grinned back. It was an instinctive reaction, he literally couldn't help himself. That smile was just infectious.

He recovered quickly enough, clearing his throat and looking down to shuffle through the bag. "Okay, I can offer you chocolate, your disgusting raisin cookie, and cold coffee." He shook the cup a little toward Wilson, then glanced up to frown at it once his own words registered. "Oh, damn, it _is_ cold." He heard a snort in response to his words, and he opened his mouth to suggest going to get Wilson a fresh cup, but he didn't have the chance. The words died on his tongue, alarm flushing through him at once and nearly sending him into a frenzied panic when Wilson suddenly sucked in a sharp gasp and started coughing. The beeping on the monitor sped up, and House practically threw the cup and bag across the bed at Foreman in response, heaving himself to his feet. One hand went to Wilson's shoulder, the other to the side of the bed.

"Wilson?" He sounded more worried than he would have liked to admit he was, but at the moment, that hardly mattered right then. He reached down further, grabbing the bin - but Wilson had seemingly recovered by that time, coughing rapidly fading, and his heart rate slowed in response. He cleared his throat a few times - each making House's stomach twist with a nauseating amount of terror - until, finally, he settled again. Instead of leaning back, he slumped sideways into House's grasp, and House fumbled with the bin for a moment longer before simply letting it drop again and lifting the other hand to wrap it around Wilson, grasping his other shoulder in a firm enough grip to pull him to sit up, pressing most of his weight down on his leg in the process. His thigh ached in protest, but he hardly cared about that right then. It felt like it might buckle under him, though, so he ended up shifting his weight to the bed after a moment.

"It's okay," Wilson was gasping, clearing his throat again, scratching an itch he couldn't seem to get rid of. But he smiled up at House anyway, and although his caramel eyes tainted with exhaustion and uncertainty, they also sparkled with a glimmer of hope that hadn't quite left since he'd told him there was a chance he could survive the cancer. "It's only natural, I'm okay…" Once more, he cleared his throat, sighed, and let his head fall back against House's elbow.

"You scared the crap out of House," Foreman joked after a moment. "And House scared the crap out of me, trying to douse me in cold coffee." He cast a teasing grin up at his former boss as House busied himself with laying Wilson back down against the bed, then shuffling back to pull it up a little so he could sit up against it and still use the back of it for support.

"He just wants an excuse to go get me another one," Wilson responded lightly, smiling.

"Shut up," was House's only response, but there was no bite to the words. He reached across the bed to take the coffee from Foreman, arching an eyebrow at the look the man shot him when Wilson wasn't looking, but he didn't comment on it as he leaned back and passed the cup over to his best friend, watching somewhat shaky fingers wrap around it as Wilson took it. House didn't let go until he was sure he had a firm grip on the cup, watching him take a sip.

After a moment of contemplation, Wilson mumbled, "I think I kind of like cold coffee now." And House… honestly didn't know how to respond to that. He didn't know who he was anymore.

"I hate you."

Wilson glanced up at him, a teasing smile gracing his lips for a second, and House already knew what was coming before the other man had even opened his mouth to say anything. "No, you don't…" His smile seemed to widen, ever so slightly; House couldn't help but glance up at Foreman, somewhat reluctantly, with an ounce of hope that Wilson wasn't going to bring up _that_ particular moment while the other man was in the room. Thankfully, Wilson seemed to catch his glance, and though his smile didn't quite fade, and he almost managed to look somewhat amused, he settled again, silently taking another sip from his _disgusting, cold coffee_ before he suddenly tilted the cup toward House and raised his eyebrows. "Go get yourself some food."

"Yes, dear," House shot back smoothly. The response came more naturally than he dared to admit, sounded too natural coming from him to Wilson. He did hesitate for a moment, trading glances between Foreman and Wilson. But, ultimately, he simply shot Foreman a warning look, half-asking him not to leave his best friend and half-warning him that if anything happened while he was gone, Foreman would be paying the price, before turning away to grab his cane again.

But he paused at the door, however, and glanced back. "You two want anything?"

He pretended not to notice Foreman's surprised expression.

* * *

House returned quickly enough, as quick as he could manage with his leg. All the food was piled in one bag, clasped firmly in his free hand, and he ended up using his cane to push the buttons on the elevator. Thankfully, the door to the room was still open when he arrived, but he couldn't help but pause upon seeing a nurse inside, fiddling with Wilson's IV while Foreman stood nearby and watched. Wilson himself seemed fine, if not somewhat tired, but it didn't quite stop House from eyeing the nurse as he walked forward to stand beside his best friend's bed. She was familiar, one of the regulars - and he found himself forcing a neutral expression onto his face when she looked up at him and offered a smile, returning it somewhat reluctantly. "Hello, Mr. Wilson. Don't worry, he's doing just fine. We're just upping his morphine a little bit."

The former diagnostician merely nodded, flicking his gaze toward the IV again. He took his seat on the edge of the bed this time rather than the stool, pulling the bag open and taking Wilson's food out first to pass it over to him, and the man quickly shifted and pushed himself to sit up a little more - prompting the nurse to lean down and pull the top half of the bed up for him as well.

"Let me know if you boys need anything else." She brushed her hands off and stepped back with a smile, and House offered a polite nod in her direction, handing Wilson his sandwich.

"Thank you," Wilson called after her, taking the food with a grin. "And thank _you."_

House only offered a hum in response to him, fishing Foreman's food out next and holding it out to him. His former fellow leaned forward and took it with a smirk, a somewhat mischievous look in his eyes, and the former doctor paused to stare at him as the other man leaned back, as calmly as ever, and took his seat on the counter and crossed one leg over the other. "Yeah, thank you-" He paused, smirked again, and added without breaking eye contact, "Mr. Wilson." House only glared at him for a moment, not really sure why the teasing expression on his face and taunting tone actually, genuinely _bothered_ him, but he eventually just shook the thought off. His food was the next out of the bag, which he crinkled up once it was empty and leaned over to toss it into the trashcan before leaning back to unwrap the Reuben sandwich he got for himself.

They sat in silence for a while, aside from the television in the background, but House couldn't help but notice that he wasn't the only one not completely focused on it. Wilson in particular seemed oddly contemplative, but House didn't know why until after he'd only finished off about half of his sandwich, watching the other man out of the corner of his eye as he chewed, swallowed, and then suddenly spoke all too-seriously, "I think Greg Wilson has a nice ring to it."

House offered him a half-startled, half-curious glance. Foreman was the first to speak, huffing out a laugh but then adding, just as seriously, "though, I also like the sound of James House."

"House-Wilson?" Wilson offered. "Wilson-House? It all weirdly fits…"

After a moment, just watching them, House simply lifted the sandwich back up for another bite. As much as he wanted to entertain this conversation, as many jokes as he knew he could crack, it was just as amusing listening to the two of _them_ talk about it. It was even more amusing to hear Wilson actively playing along - _initiating_ it, for god's sake - when he didn't, not usually. House was typically the only one who ever got to see Wilson's 'playful' side, though, he mused, that was probably because Wilson didn't tend to hang out with other people when he was around. Which was mostly House's fault, because he had a bad habit of harassing a lot of Wilson's friends that he didn't know personally himself - and even then, he still did it anyway. Maybe not to the extent he would if it was a total stranger instead, but he still did it regardless.

Actually, it was kind of nice. Wilson seemed content, happy. House was willing to admit that the fact that he was openly joking with someone else would have bothered him before, but right then the man could easily say that he could sit there and listen to Wilson joking all day long.

"See, we can't use House," Wilson was saying. "Since he's supposed to be dead and all." He glanced at House as he spoke, and the older man peered down at him through his lashes.

After a moment, House finally gave in, shrugging. "Too bad. James House…"

"Though," Wilson practically giggled, "I guess I am the _man_ in our relationship, aren't I?"

"No, you're not. And don't stereotype, Wilson. I've heard of plenty of married couples who take the bride's last name," House retorted, arching an eyebrow down at his best friend and drawing his head back with a smirk as the other man turned his head in his direction once more. "Actually, I've heard of married couples who even keep their last names. So we could very well still be married and be 'James Wilson' and 'Greg House' separately. The whole 'taking your spouse's last name' thing is less of a requirement and more of a suggestion." After a moment's pause, begrudgingly, he added, "trust me, if I wasn't presumed dead, you'd be James House."

Wilson leveled a smirk back at him in response, taking another bite of his food. "If you weren't presumed dead, we wouldn't be having to fake a marriage. Thus, your argument is invalid."

"We don't technically have to fake a marriage anyway. I could be your brother. Or your cousin."

Wilson suddenly snorted out a laugh at that, at the little inside joke only the two of them had the pleasure of understanding. Cousin. That was what House had pretended to be that fateful day when he bailed Wilson out of prison, when they first met. The former doctor hadn't even thought about it, but once the realization settled in, he couldn't bite back a grin on time as Wilson started laughing again, lowering the sandwich slightly and covering his mouth with the back of his hand.

"I don't get it," Foreman declared, bemused.

"When we first met-" Wilson began, stifling his laughter with his hand. But he seemed unable to go on after that, huffing out another laugh, so House gladly took over the explanation himself.

"I had to pretend to be his cousin to bail him out of jail," he admitted, grinning. "I didn't know enough about him at the time to fake being his husband, and also didn't really have anything to show for it either. And since they couldn't give me a DNA test at the time, they just kind of went with it." He chuckled despite himself, expression softening briefly as he recalled that day.

Foreman laughed a little at that as well, raising his eyebrows. "Wilson went to _prison_? Damn."

"Ohhh yeah. Destruction of property and assault charges. Remember when my father died? Wilson got arrested on the way to the funeral because he never went to his hearing." House couldn't help but snicker then, while Wilson managed to look embarrassed and amused at the same time, huffing out a somewhat nervous laugh now. He sat forward, finishing off the rest of his sandwich, and balled the wrapper up to throw it away while House went on casually, "actually, Wilson was quite the troublemaker back then. I was the one keeping him from either getting locked up or shot, maybe both, maybe in that order. Remember that time you actually stole gas from a neighbor's car at that one hotel so we'd get to that conference in time?"

Wilson looked horrified and amused at the same time, cupping his hand over his mouth. Foreman sucked in a gasp at that, looking absolutely shocked as he stared. "You're _kidding_."

"He's not," Wilson offered somewhat weakly, but there was still an edge of laughter to his tone, which he tried in vain to swallow down. "No, that actually happened. I mean, it wasn't quite like that… I guess it was kind of like that…" He mumbled, trailing off. "How'd we get out of that?"

"We didn't. _I_ got _you_ out of it by talking the poor guy out of calling the police."

"Out of the both of you," Foreman began, shaking his head with a grin. "I would have expected something like that from House, definitely. Actually, I wouldn't put it past him to do something like that now, much less back then. But Wilson being the felon in the relationship? I've gotta admit, that's one plot twist I _didn't_ see coming." House couldn't help but huff out another laugh at _that_ , and Wilson let his head fall back against the bed, covering his face to muffle his laughter. "And here I thought I'd be prepared for everything. Now I'm kind of curious, though."

"It doesn't get much worse than that," Wilson admitted after a few moments, crossing his arms over his chest. House finished off his Reuben after a moment in a few swift bites, just listening. "I mellowed out a lot after that. I was going through a…" Wilson gestured slightly at nothing in particular before letting his arms return to their position again. "Rough year. House kind of helped me clear my head for a while. And then _he_ became the crazy one in the relationship."

"What better way to force you into responsibility?" House shot back, smirking despite himself. "More time spent babysitting me meant less time for you to be self-destructive."

"I was not _self-destructive-"_

House rolled his eyes. "Right, because getting yourself into trouble with the authorities as much as you can and getting arrested eight times in the span of three months isn't self-destructing. Forgive me, it's not like I have any experience in that particular field and know what I'm saying."

With no better response, Wilson promptly stuck his tongue out at House.

House, obviously, returned the gesture.

"Just kiss already, dear god," Foreman groaned, and though the grin on his face made it clear that he was joking, House honestly considered doing just that just to screw with them both. Unfortunately, Wilson chose that moment to become a dark red, stuttering mess, and so House decided against it because he didn't feel like giving his fresh-out-of-surgery friend a heart attack. He fell mostly silent after that, alternating between talking to them and watching the television. The hours seemed to fly by; it wasn't long before Wilson started getting tired, the morphine doing its job, and House laid him back so he could curl up and try to fall asleep again.

"You'll stay, right?" Wilson shut his eyes, clearly too exhausted to hold them open even while he spoke. House glanced down at him, biting the inside of his cheek, but eventually decided to put his pride on shutdown for the time being, reaching out to brush the man's hair back with a sigh.

"I'll be right here, Wilson."

Wilson fell asleep not too long after that, and House let his hand stay pressed against the other man's forehead for a while before reluctantly withdrawing it to clasp it over his leg instead. Everything was silent for quite some time after that, as Foreman started getting comfortable in the chair - clearly intending to be there all night - and House was more than ready for another mostly-sleepless night watching over his best friend and riding out the pain until morning came. He turned the volume on the television down but didn't turn it off, and eventually ended up passing the remote over to Foreman for him to do whatever he wanted to do with it. TV hardly interested him anymore; he found it oddly difficult to focus on anything like that long-term. Hell, he found it difficult to focus on anything long-term, anything that wasn't the man asleep beside him. Greg House had a one-track mind, and Wilson was currently the only thing on that track.

"Are you doing okay?" Foreman said suddenly, too suddenly, suddenly enough that the man almost flinched in surprise, having mostly zoned out. He glanced over, arching an eyebrow, as Foreman finally tore his gaze away from the television to meet his gaze. "You're pretty quiet. More than that, you're…" He trailed off, but seemed to be unable to find the word for whatever House apparently 'was', because he simply ended up shaking his head. "Are you okay?"

House stared at him for a moment, narrowing his eyes. Quiet. Wilson had said the exact same thing, and House wasn't exactly _unaware_ of it, but he still didn't get why it was such a big deal.

You'd think they'd be happy about it. House himself was content with it.

"I'm fine," he replied, simply, and turned away again.

This was going to be a long night.


End file.
